O Death, Made Proud With Pure And

Love Goes Toward Love.

Modest Wisdom Plucks Me From Over-credulous Haste.

The Lily I Condemned For Thy Hand, And Buds Of Marjoram Had Stol'n Thy Hair: The Roses Fearfully On Thorns Did Stand, One Blushing Shame, Another White Despair; A Third, Nor Red Nor White, Had Stol'n Of Both And To His Robbery Had Annex'd Thy Breath; But, For His Theft, In Pride Of All His Growth A Vengeful Canker Eat Him Up To Death. More Flowers I Noted, Yet I None Could See But Sweet Or Colour It Had Stol'n From Thee.

And Therefore Is Love Said To Be A Child, Because In Choice He Is So Oft Beguil'd

Get Thee Glass Eyes, And Like A Scurvy Politician, Seem To See The Things Thou Dost Not.