Swear Me, Kate, Like A Lady As

They Are Sick That Surfeit With Too Much, As They That Starve With Nothing.

Ere I Could Make Thee Open Thy White Hand, And Clap Thyself My Love; Then Didst Thou Utter, I Am Your's For Ever!

O, Spirit Of Love, How Quick And Fresh Art Thou!

For We, Which Now Behold These Present Days, Have Eyes To Wonder, But Lack Tongues To Praise.

What's More To Do, Which Would Be Planted Newly With The Time, As Calling Home Our Exiled Friends Abroad That Fled The Snares Of Watchful Tyranny, Producing Forth The Cruel Ministers Of This Dead Butcher And His Fiend-like Queen, Who, As 'tis Thought, By Self And Violent Hands Took Off Her Life; This, And What Needful Else That Calls Upon Us, By The Grace Of Grace We Will Perform In Measure, Time, And Place.