Young Men's Love Then Lies

If Music Be The Food Of Love, Play On, Give Me Excess Of It; That Surfeiting, The Appetite May Sicken, And So Die.

And Sleep, That Sometime Shuts Up Sorrow's Eye, Steal Me Awhile From Mine Own Company.

Beggar That I Am, I Am Even Poor In Thanks

If After Every Tempest Come Such Calms, May The Winds Blow Till They Have Waken'd Death!

So Many Hours Must I Take My Rest; So Many Hours Must I Contemplate.