I May Command Where I

And Where Two Raging Fires Meet Together, They Do Consume The Thing That Feeds Their Fury.

Nothing 'gainst Times Scythe Can Make Defence.

My Love Is As A Fever, Longing Still.

Yet This My Comfort: When Your Words Are Done, My Woes End Likewise With The Evening Sun.

Because It Is A Customary Cross, As Die To Love As Thoughts, And Dreams, And Sighs, Wishes, And Tears, Poor Fancy's Followers.