Fruits That Blossom First Will First Be

Tired With All These, For Restful Death I Cry.

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

You'd Be So Lean, That Blast Of January Would Blow You Through And Through. Now, My Fair'st Friend, I Would I Had Some Flowers O' The Spring That Might Become Your Time Of Day.

Be Great In Act, As You Have Been In Thought.

And All This Day An Unaccustomed Spirit Lifts Me Above The Ground With Cheerful Thoughts.