Poetry
... _ _ ottrp. SONNET. Love, dearest lady, such as I would speak, Lives not within the humour of the eye; Not being but an outward phantasy, That skims the surface of a tinted check, Else it would wane with beauty, and grow weak,- A-s i the Rose mado sumsner,-and so lie Amongst the perishable things that die, Unlike the love which I would give and seek Whose health is of no hue to feel decay, ...