How Sometimes Nature Will Betray

Love Is Begun By Time And Time Qualifies The Spark And Fire Of It.

The Gods Are Just, And Of Our Pleasant Vices Make Instruments To Plague Us.

Say She Rail; Why, I'll Tell Her Plain She Sings As Sweetly As A Nightingale. Say That She Frown; I'll Say She Looks As Clear As Morning Roses Newly Wash'd With Dew. Say She Be Mute And Will Not Speak A Word; Then I'll Commend Her Volubility, And Say She Uttereth Piercing Eloquence.

And In The Morn And Liquid Dew Of Youth, Contagious Blastments Are Are Most Imminent.

Speak, My Fair, And Fairly, I Pray Thee.