How Low Am I, Thou

You Are An Alchemist; Make Gold Of That.

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.

All Furnished, All In Arms; All Plum'd Like Estridges That With The Wind Bated Like Eagles Having Lately Bathed; Glittering In Golden Coats Like Images; As Full Of Spirit As The Month Of May And Gorgeous As The Sun At Midsummer; Wanton As Youthful Goats, Wild As Young Bulls.

A Loud Laugh Bespeaks A Vacant Mind!

Come, Woo Me, Woo Me, For Now I Am In A Holiday Humor, And Like Enough To Consent.