Though Patience Be A Tired Mare, Yet

For She Had Eyes And Chose Me.

Then Hate Me When Thou Wilt, If Ever, Now.

Here I And Sorrows Sit; Here Is My Throne, Bid Kings Come Bow To It.

And In Some Perfumes There Is More Delight Than In The Breath That From My Mistress Reeks. I Love To Hear Her Speak, Yet Well I Know That Music Hath A Far More Pleasing Sound.

The Poet's Eye, In A Fine Frenzy Rolling, Doth Glance From Heaven To Earth, From Earth To Heaven.