You Told A Lie, An

Put Forth Thy Hand, Reach At The Glorious Gold.

To Take Arms Against A Sea Of Troubles.

When Remedies Are Past, The Griefs Are Ended By Seeing The Worst, Which Late On Hopes Depended.

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.

The Extreme Parts Of Time Extremely Forms All Causes To The Purpose Of His Speed.