When the rose reigns, and locks with ointments shine

To get thine ends, lay bashfulness aside; Who fears to ask doth teach to be deny'd.

I write of hell; I sing (and ever shall) Of heaven, and hope to have it after all.

To read my book the virgin shy May blush while Brutus standeth by, But when he's gone, read through what's writ, And never stain a cheek for it.

In sober mornings, do not thou rehearse The holy incantation of a verse.

I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds and bowers, Of April, May, of June and July-flowers; I sing of May-poles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes, Of bridegrooms, brides and of their bridal cakes; I write of youth, of love, and have access By …

Is there no way to beget In my limbs their former heat? Æson had, as poets feign, Baths that made him young again: Find that medicine, if you can, For your dry decrepit man