Master, Go On, And I

Our Fancies Are More Giddy And Unfirm, More Longing, Wavering, Sooner Lost And Won, Than Women's Are.

The Hebrew Will Turn Christian; He Grows Kind.

Drink Down All Unkindness.

But Shall We Wear These Glories For A Day? Or Shall They Last, And We Rejoice In Them?

Love's Heralds Should Be Thoughts, Which Ten Times Faster Glide Than The Sun's Beams Driving Back Shadows Over Low'ring Hills. Therefore Do Nimble-pinioned Doves Draw Love, And Therefore Hath The Wind-swift Cupid Wings.