Not Proud You Have, But Thankful That

A Poor Thing, Perhaps, But My Own.

If Thou Engrossest All The Griefs Are Thine, Thou Robb'st Me Of A Moiety.

For I Can Raise No Money By Vile Means.

The Brightness Of Her Cheek Would Shame Those Stars As Daylight Doth A Lamp; Her Eyes In Heaven Would Through The Airy Region Stream So Bright That Birds Would Sing, And Think It Were Not Night.

Chewing The Food Of Sweet And Bitter Fancy.