If We Had No Winter, The Spring

Satan, That Great Angler, Hath His Sundry Baits For Sundry Tempers Of Men, Which They All Catch Greedily At, But Few Perceive The Hook Till It Be Too Late.

The World No Longer Lets Me Love, My Hope And Treasure Are Above.

My Love Is Such That Rivers Cannot Quench, Nor Ought But Love From Thee, Give Recompence. Thy Love Is Such I Can No Way Repay, The Heavens Reward Thee Manifold I Pray.

And Time Brings Down What Is Both Strong And Tall. But Plants New Set To Be Eradicate, And Buds New Blown, To Have So Short A Date, Is By His Hand Alone That Guides Nature And Fate.

To Sing Of Wars, Of Captains, And Of Kings/of Cities Founded, Common-wealths Begun/for My Mean Pen Are Too Superior Things.