Swear Me, Kate, Like A Lady As

As Chaste As Is The Bud Ere It Be Blown.

Ay Me! For Aught That I Could Ever Read, Could Ever Hear By Tale Or History, The Course Of True Love Never Did Run Smooth. But, Either It Was Different In Blood,- Or Else It Stood Upon The Choice Of Friends,- Or, If There Were A Sympathy In Choice, War, Death, Or Sickness Did Lay Siege To It.

There Is An Old Poor Man,. . . . Oppress'd With Two Weak Evils, Age And Hunger.

Speak On, But Be Not Over-tedious.

. . . It Is Impossible You Should Take True Root But By The Fair Weather That You Make Yourself It Is Needful That You Frame The Season Of Your Own Harvest.