What Is A Kiss? Why This, As

Tis Hard To Find God, But To Comprehend Him, As He Is, Is Labour Without End.

When The Artless Doctor Sees No One Hope, But Of His Fees, And His Skill Runs On The Lees; Sweet Spirit, Comfort Me! When His Potion And His Pill, Has, Or None, Or Little Skill, Meet For Nothing, But To Kill; Sweet Spirit, Comfort Me!

Who After His Transgression Doth Repent, Is Halfe, Or Altogether, Innocent.

Fair Daffodils, We Weep To See You Haste Away So Soon: As Yet The Early-rising Sun Has Not Attained His Noon.

I Do Love I Know Not What; Sometimes This, And Sometimes That.