Love Is A Circle That

Before Man's Fall The Rose Was Born,st. Ambrose Says, Without The Thorn;but For Man's Fault Then Was The Thornwithout The Fragrant Rose-bud Born; But Ne'er The Rose Without The Thorn.

You Say To Me-wards Your Affection's Strong; Pray Love Me Little, So You Love Me Long.

To The Virgins, To Make Much Of Time Gather Ye Rose-buds While Ye May, Old Time Is Still A-flying; And This Same Flower That Smiles Today, Tomorrow Will Be Dying. The Glorious Lamp Of Heaven, The Sun, The Higher He’s A-getting, The Sooner Will His Race Be Run, And Nearer He Is To Setting. That Age Is Best Which Is The First, When Youth And Blood Are Warmer; But Being Spent, The Worse, And Worst Times Still Succeed The Former. Then Be Not Coy, But Use Your Time, And While You May, Go Marry; For Having Lost But Once Your Prime, You May For Ever Tarry.

But Ne'er The Rose Without The Thorn.

A Sweet Disorder In The Dress Kindles In Clothes A Wantonness : A Lawn About The Shoulders Thrown Into A Fine Distraction : An Erring Lace Which Here And There Enthrals The Crimson Stomacher : A Cuff Neglectful, And Thereby Ribbons To Flow Confusedly : A Winning Wave (deserving Note) In The Tempestuous Petticoat : A Careless Shoe-string, In Whose Tie I See A Wild Civility : Do More Bewitch Me Than When Art Is Too Precise In Every Part.