Hell is no other but a soundless pit

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.

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

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.

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

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