Women May Fall When There's

Be Collected. No More Amazement. Tell Your Piteous Heart There's No Harm Done.

An Angel; Or, If Not, An Earthly Paragon.

And To The English Court Assemble Now, From Every Region, Apes Of Idleness!

These Are The Forgeries Of Jealousy; And Never, Since The Middle Summer's Spring, Met We On Hill, In Dale, Forest, Or Mead, By Paved Fountain Or By Rushy Brook, Or In The Beached Margent Of The Sea, To Dance Our Ringlets To The Whistling Wind, But With Thy Brawls Thou Hast Disturbed Our Sport.

Though Patience Be A Tired Mare, Yet She Will Plod.