This Thought Is As A Death.

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

Their Lips Were Four Red Roses On A Stalk.

She Will Die If You Love Her Not, And She Will Die Ere She Might Make Her Love Known

As Soon Go Kindle Fire With Snow, As Seek To Quench The Fire Of Love With Words.

I Have Very Poor And Unhappy Brains For Drinking.