In sober mornings, do not thou rehearse

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.

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

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 …

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

When the rose reigns, and locks with ointments shine, Let rigid Cato read these lines of mine.

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