Women's Weapons, Water-drops.

O How Wretched Is That Poor Man That Hangs On Princes Favors! There Is Betwixt That Smile We Would Aspire To, That Sweet Aspect Of Princes, And Their Ruin, More Pangs And Fears Than Wars Or Women Have, And When He Falls, He Falls Like Lucifer, Never To Hope Again.

She Dreams Of Him That Has Forgot Her Love; You Dote On Her That Cares Not For Your Love. 'tis Pity Love Should Be So Contrary; And Thinking Of It Makes Me Cry 'alas!

When Daisies Pied And Violets Blue And Lady-smocks All Silver-white And Cuckoo-buds Of Yellow Hue Do Paint The Meadows With Delight, The Cuckoo Then, On Every Tree, Mocks Married Men; For Thus Sings He, Cuckoo; Cuckoo, Cuckoo; O, Word Of Fear, Unpleasing To A Married Ear.

I Am Not Merry, But I Do Beguile The Thing I Am By Seeming Otherwise.

The Poet's Eye, In A Fine Frenzy Rolling, Doth Glance From Heaven To Earth, From Earth To Heaven.