But Fish Not With This

On A Day - Alack The Day! - Love, Whose Month Is Ever May, Spied A Blossom Passing Fair Playing In The Wanton Air

If Fortune Torments Me, Hope Contents Me.

I Have Neither The Scholar's Melancholy, Which Is Emulation; Nor The Musician's, Which Is Fantastical; Nor The Courtier's, Which Is Proud; Not The Soldier's Which Is Ambitious; Nor The Lawyer's, Which Is Politic; Nor The Lady's, Which Is Nice; Nor The Lover's, Which Is All These: But It Is A Melancholy Of Mine Own, Compounded Of Many Simples, Extracted From Many Objects, And Indeed The Sundry Contemplation Of My Travels, Which, By Often Rumination, Wraps Me In A Most Humorous Sadness.

Who Is Here So Vile That Will Not Love His Country?

Love Is Blind And Lovers Cannot See The Pretty Follies That Themselves Commit