O Most Delicate Fiend! Who

Love's Not Time's Fool, Though Rosy Lips And Cheeks Within His Bending Sickle's Compass Come; Love Alters Not With His Brief Hours And Weeks, But Bears It Out Even To The Edge Of Doom. If This Be Error And Upon Me Prov'd, I Never Writ, Nor No Man Ever Lov'd.

From Camp To Camp, Through The Foul Womb Of Night, The Hum Of Either Army Stilly Sounds, That The Fixed Sentinels Almost Receive The Secret Whispers Of Each Other's Watch. Fire Answers Fire, And Through Their Play Flames Each Battle Sees The Other's Umbered Face. Steed Threatens Steed, In High And Boastful Neighs Piercing The Night's Dull Ear; And From The Tents The Armorers Accomplishing The Knights, With Busy Hammers Closing Rivets Up, Give Dreadful Note Of Preparation.

The Labor We Delight In Physics [cures] Pain.

Yet, For I Know Thou Art Religious And Hast A Thing Within Thee Called Conscience, With Twenty Popish Tricks And Ceremonies Which I Have Seen Thee Careful To Observe, Therefore I Urge Thy Oath; For That I Know An Idiot Holds His Bauble For A God And Keeps The Oath Which By That God He Swears, To That I'll Urge Him: Therefore Thou Shalt Vow By That Same God, What God Soe'er It Be, That Thou Adorest And Hast In Reverence, To Save My Boy, To Nourish And Bring Him Up, Or Else I Will Discover Naught To Thee.

Yet Nor The Lays Of Birds Nor The Sweet Smell Of Different Flowers In Odour And In Hue Could Make Me Any Summer's Story Tell, Or From Their Proud Lap Pluck Them Where They Grew; Nor Did I Wonder At The Lily's White, Nor Praise The Deep Vermilion In The Rose; They Were But Sweet, But Figures Of Delight, Drawn After You, You Pattern Of All Those.