Only a little more

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

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

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.

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 …

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