Oh What Fools We Mortals

Pray, Do Not Mock Me. I Am A Very Foolish Fond Old Man, Fourscore And Upward, Not An Hour More Nor Less; And, To Deal Plainly, I Fear I Am Not In My Perfect Mind.

There's Rosemary, That's For Remembrance; Pray You, Love, Remember: And There Is Pansies, That's For Thoughts. There's Fennel For You, And Columbines: — There 's Rue For You; And Here's Some For Me: — We May Call It, Herb Of Grace O'sundays: — You May Wear Your Rue With A Difference. — There's A Daisy: — I Would Give You Some Violets; But They Withered All, When My Father Died: — They Say, He Made A Good End.

So Full Of Artless Jealousy Is Guilt, It Spills Itself In Fearing To Be Spilt.

My Love Is As A Fever, Longing Still For That Which Longer Nurseth The Disease, Feeding On That Which Doth Preserve The Ill, Th' Uncertain Sickly Appetite To Please. My Reason, The Physician To My Love, Angry That His Prescriptions Are Not Kept, Hath Left Me, And I Desperate Now Approve Desire Is Death, Which Physic Did Except.

But The Strong Base And Building Of My Love Is As The Very Centre Of The Earth, Drawing All Things To It.