The Clock Upbraids Me With

Under The Colour Of Commending Him I Have Access My Own Love To Prefer; But Silvia Is Too Fair, Too True, Too Holy, To Be Corrupted With My Worthless Gifts.

Let Me Be Boiled To Death With Melancholy.

They Are In The Very Wrath Of Love, And They Will Go Together. Clubs Cannot Part Them

You Peasant Swain! You Whoreson Malt-horse Drudge!

In Winter's Tedious Nights Sit By The Fire With Good Old Folks, And Let Them Tell Thee Tales Of Woeful Ages, Long Ago Betid