But his kiss was so sweet, and so closely he pressed, that I languished and pined till I granted the rest.
To shoot at crows is powder flung away.
The fly that sips treacle is lost in the sweets.
What frenzy dictates, jealousy believes
Who friendship with a knave hath made, Is judged a partner in the trade.
If with me you'd fondly stray Over the hills and far away.