Sound, sound the clarion of friends, fill the fife, throughout the sensual world proclaim, One crowed hour of glorious waiting is worth and age without a name...

Drink to me, with thine eyes,
and I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
and I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's Nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee, late, a rosie wreath,
Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not withered bee.
But thou thereon did'st. only breath,
And sent'st it backe to me;
Since when it growes, and smells, I sweare,
Not of it selfe, but the.
Perhaps an answers will come ?
Soon or ???