Thou Weedy Elf-skinned Canker-blossom!

Think'st Thou I'd Make A Life Of Jealousy, To Follow Still The Changes Of The Moon With Fresh Suspicions? No; To Be Once In Doubt Is Once To Be Resolved.

The Heart Hath Treble Wrong When It Is Barr'd The Aidance Of The Tongue.

I Hope To See London Once Ere I Die.

He That Dies This Year Is Quit For The Next.

These Are The Forgeries Of Jealousy; And Never, Since The Middle Summer's Spring, Met We On Hill, In Dale, Forest, Or Mead, By Paved Fountain Or By Rushy Brook, Or In The Beached Margent Of The Sea, To Dance Our Ringlets To The Whistling Wind, But With Thy Brawls Thou Hast Disturbed Our Sport.