There Was Never Yet Fair Woman But

No Deeper Wrinkles Yet? Hath Sorrow Struck So Many Blows Upon This Face Of Mine And Made No Deeper Wounds?

Thou Ever Young, Fresh, Lov'd, And Delicate Wooer, Whose Blush Doth Thaw The Consecrated Snow

If After Every Tempest Come Such Calms, May The Winds Blow Till They Have Waken'd Death!

Thou And I Are Too Wise To Woo Peaceably.

For I Am Nothing If Not Critical.