And I Will Make It Felony To

Winter's Not Gone Yet, If The Wild Geese Fly That Way.

Neither My Place, Nor Aught I Heard Of Business, Hath Raised Me From My Bed; Nor Doth The General Care Take Hold On Me; For My Particular Grief Is Of So Floodgate And O'erbearing Nature That It Engluts And Swallows Other Sorrows, And It Is Still Itself.

Constant You Are, But Yet A Woman; And For Secrecy, No Lady Closer; For I Well Believe Thou Wilt Not Utter What Thou Dost Not Know.

One Fairer Than My Love? The All-seeing Sun Ne'er Saw Her Match Since First The World Begun.

Then Was I As A Tree Whose Boughs Did Bend With Fruit; But In One Night, A Storm Or Robbery, Call It What You Will, Shook Down My Mellow Hangings, Nay, My Leaves, And Left Me Bare To Weather.