Your Wisdom Is Consum'd In

No Doubt They Rose Up Early To Observe The Rite Of May; And, Hearing Our Intent, Came Here In Grace Of Our Solemnity.

But Men May Construe Things After Their Fashion, Clean From The Purpose Of The Things Themselves.

Your Face Is A Book, Where Men May Read Strange Matters.

Then Was I As A Tree Whose Boughs Did Bend With Fruit; But In One Night, A Storm Or Robbery, Call It What You Will, Shook Down My Mellow Hangings, Nay, My Leaves, And Left Me Bare To Weather.

This Blessèd Plot, This Earth, This Realm, This England This Nurse, This Teeming Womb Of Royal Kings, . . . This Land Of Such Dear Souls, This Dear Dear Land.