Love Is Too Young To

The Poet's Eye, In A Fine Frenzy Rolling, Doth Glance From Heaven To Earth, From Earth To Heaven; And As Imagination Bodies Forth The Forms Of Things Unknown, The Poet's Pen Turns Them To Shape, And Gives To Airy Nothing A Local Habitation And A Name; Such Tricks Hath Strong Imagination.

Oh, Flatter Me; For Love Delights In Praises.

He Doth Nothing But Talk Of His Horses.

The Hand That Hath Made You Fair Hath Made You Good.

Discomfort Guides My Tongue And Bids Me Speak Of Nothing But Despair.