But What's So Blessed-fair That Fears No

I Will Be Treble-sinewed, Hearted, Breathed, And Fight Maliciously; For When Mine Hours Were Nice And Lucky, Men Did Ransom Lives Of Me For Jests; But Now I'll Set My Teeth And Send To Darkness All That Stop Me.

Thus Sometimes Hath The Brightest Day A Cloud; And After Summer Evermore Succeeds Barren Winter, With His Wrathful Nipping Cold: So Cares And Joys Abound, As Seasons Fleet.

Who Is Silvia What Is She, That All Our Swains Commend Her Holy, Fair, And Wise Is She.

He Hath Borne Himself Beyond The Promise Of His Age, Doing, In The Figure Of A Lamb, The Feats Of A Lion.

The Crow Doth Sing As Sweetly As The Lark When Neither Is Attended; And I Think The Nightingale, If She Should Sing By Day When Every Goose Is Cackling, Would Be Thought No Better A Musician Than The Wren. How Many Thing By Season Seasoned Are To Their Right Praise And True Perfection!