Rude Am I In My

The Rain, It Raineth Every Day.

For Grief Is Crowned With Consolation.

We Cannot All Be Masters.

Reason Thus With Life: If I Do Lose Thee, I Do Lose A Thing That None But Fools Would Keep.

My Love Is As A Fever, Longing Still For That Which Longer Nurseth The Disease, Feeding On That Which Doth Preserve The Ill, Th' Uncertain Sickly Appetite To Please. My Reason, The Physician To My Love, Angry That His Prescriptions Are Not Kept, Hath Left Me, And I Desperate Now Approve Desire Is Death, Which Physic Did Except.