The Heavenly-harness'd Team Begins His

Flower Of This Purple Dye, Hit With Cupid's Archery, Sink In Apple Of His Eye.

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.

But Thou Art Fair, And At Thy Birth, Dear Boy, Nature And Fortune Join'd To Make Thee Great: Of Nature's Gifts Thou Mayst With Lilies Boast, And With The Half-blown Rose; But Fortune, O!

If Ever (as That Ever May Be Near) You Meet In Some Fresh Cheek The Power Of Fancy, Then Shall You Know The Wounds Invisible That Love's Keen, Arrows Make.

Hast Any Philosophy In Thee Shepherd? .• • • • . . . He That Wants Money, Means And Content, Is Without Three Good Friends; That The Property Of Rain Is To Wet And Fire To Burn; That Good Pasture Makes Fat Sheep, And A Great Cause Of The Night Is Lack Of The Sun; That He That Hath Learned No Wit By Nature Nor Art May Complain Of Good Breeding Or Comes Of A Very Dull Kindred.