I know a place where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows.

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.

Death-counterfeiting sleep.

Men shut their doors against a setting sun.

I understand thy kisses, and thou mine, And that's a feeling disputation.

And worse I may be yet: the worst is not So long as we can say 'This is the worst.

You, and your lady, Take from my heart all thankfulness!