In argument with men a woman ever Goes by the worse, whatever be her cause.

Courtesy which oft is found in lowly sheds, with smoky rafters, than in tapestry halls and courts of princes, where it first was named.

The love-lorn nightingale nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well.

Morn, Wak'd by the circling hours, with rosy hand Unbarr'd the gates of light.

To adore the conqueror, who now beholds Cherub and seraph rolling in the flood.

And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes.

So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky.