Fie, Fie, How Frantically I

Piece Out Our Imperfections With Your Thoughts.

This Day I Breathed First: Time Is Come Round, And Where I Did Begin There Shall I End; My Life Is Run His Compass.

I Begin To Find An Idle And Fond Bondage In The Oppression Of Aged Tyranny, Who Sways, Not As It Hath Power, But As It Is Suffered.

To Be Generous, Guiltless, And Of A Free Disposition Is To Take Those Things For Bird-bolts That You Deem Cannon-bullets.

She Marking Them Begins A Wailing Note And Sings Extemporally A Woeful Ditty How Love Makes Young Men Thrall And Old Men Dote How Love Is Wise In Folly, Foolish-witty Her Heavy Anthem Still Concludes In Woe, And Still The Choir Of Echoes Answer So.