Then Love Is Sin, And Let Me

To Rage, To Lust, To Write To, To Commend, All Is The Purlieu Of The God Of Love.

Busy Old Fool, Unruly Sun, Why Dost Thou Thus, Through Windows, And Through Curtains, Call On Us? Must To Thy Motions Lovers'seasons Run? Saucy Pedantic Wretch, Go Chide Late Schoolboys, And Sour Prentices, Go Tell Court-huntsmen That The King Will Ride, Call Countryants To Harvest Offices; Love, All Alike, No Season Knows, Nor Clime, Nor Hours, Days, Months, Which Are The Rags Of Time.

Our Faults Are Not Seen, But Past Us; Neither Felt, But Only In The Punishment.

Enjoyment Always Has A Spoiling, Otherwise It Cannot Be So.

Come Live With Me, And Be My Love, And We Will Some New Pleasures Prove Of Golden Sands, And Crystal Brooks, With Silken Lines, And Silver Hooks.