An Arrant Traitor As Any Is In

The Even Mead, That Erst Brought Sweetly Forth The Freckled Cowslip, Burnet, And Green Clover, Wanting The Scythe, All Uncorrected, Rank, Conceives By Idleness, And Nothing Teems But Hateful Docks, Rough Thistles, Kecksies, Burrs, Losing Both Beauty And Utility.

Then Will I Raise Aloft The Milk-white Rose. For Whose Sweet Smell The Air Shall Be Perfumed.

I Can Call Spirits From The Vasty Deep.

O, Here Will I Set Up My Everlasting Rest And Shake The Yoke Of Inauspicious Stars From The World-wearied Flesh

Value Dwells Not In Particular Will; It Holds His Estimate And Dignity As Well Wherein 'tis Precious Of Itself As In The Prizer.