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I Cannot Tell What The Dickens His Name Is.

O Fortune, Fortune! All Men Call Thee Fickle.

For Who So Firm That Cannot Be Seduced?

Of All The Flowers, Me Thinks A Rose Is Best.

These Are The Forgeries Of Jealousy; And Never, Since The Middle Summer's Spring, Met We On Hill, In Dale, Forest, Or Mead, By Paved Fountain Or By Rushy Brook, Or In The Beached Margent Of The Sea, To Dance Our Ringlets To The Whistling Wind, But With Thy Brawls Thou Hast Disturbed Our Sport.