Come And Trip It As Ye Go

Quips And Cranks And Wanton Wiles, Nods And Becks And Wreathèd Smiles.

Flowers Of All Hue, And Without Thorn The Rose.

So Much I Feel My Genial Spirits Droop, My Hopes All Flat, Nature Within Me Seems In Her Functions Weary Of Herself.

His Form Had Yet Not Lost All Her Original Brightness, Nor Appear'd Less Than Archangel Ruin'd, And Th' Excess Of Glory Obscur'd.

The Bird Of Jove, Stoop'd From His Aery Tour, Two Birds Of Gayest Plume Before Him Drove.