O That A Lady, Of One Man

We Cannot Fight For Love, As Men May Do; We Shou'd Be Woo'd, And Were Not Made To Woo

The Setting Sun, And The Music At The Close, As The Last Taste Of Sweets, Is Sweetest Last, Writ In Rememberance More Than Long Things Past.

Love, Whose Month Is Ever May, Spied A Blossom Passing Fair, Playing In The Wanton Air: Through The Velvet Leaves The Wind, All Unseen Can Passage Find; That The Lover, Sick To Death, Wish'd Himself The Heaven's Breath.

Is She Kind As She Is Fair?

The Present Eye Praises The Present Object.