With Love's Light Wings Did I O'er-perch

Patience Is Sottish, And Impatience Does Become A Dog That's Mad.

I Durst Not Laugh For Fear Of Opening My Lips And Receiving The Bad Air.

The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose.

Instead Of Weeping When A Tragedy Occurs In A Songbird's Life, It Sings Away Its Grief. I Believe We Could Well Follow The Pattern Of Our Feathered Friends.

Come Now, What Masques, What Dances Shall We Have To Wear Away This Long Age Of Three Hours Between Our After-supper And Bedtime?