Love's Best Habit Is A

That, Sir, Which Serves And Seeks For Gain, And Follows But For Form, Will Pack, When It Begins To Rain, And Leave Thee In A Storm.

This England Never Did, Nor Never Shall, Lie At The Proud Foot Of A Conqueror, But When It First Did Help To Wound Itself. Now These Her Princes Are Come Home Again, Come The Three Corners Of The World In Arms, And We Shall Shock Them. Nought Shall Make Us Rue, If England To Itself Do Rest But True.

Now The Fair Goddess, Fortune, Fall Deep In Love With Thee, And Her Great Charms Misguide Thy Opposers' Swords!

With Mirth And Laughter Let Old Wrinkles Come. And Let My Liver Rather Heat With Wine, Than My Heart Cool With Mortifying Groans.

Thus Hath The Candle Sing'd The Moth. O These Deliberate Fools!