What's brave, what's noble, let's do it after the Roman fashion.
Make me a willow cabin at your gate, And call upon my soul within the house; Write loyal cantons of contemned love And sing them loud even in the dead of night.
The fool multitude, that choose by show, not learning more than the fond eye doth teach.
Preferred three hours quicker over one moment late.
Rumor is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures.
This music crept by me upon the waters, Allaying both their fury and my passion With its sweet air: thence I have follow’d it.