For all we know Of what the blessed do above Is, that they sing, and that they love.

A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that 's good, and all that 's fair; Give me but what this riband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.

Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.

That eagle's fate and mine are one, Which on the shaft that made him die Espied a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high.

'Yeah, it's hard to sing sad songs when there's so much love'

Tell me why, must I fall in love with you?

I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon; To whom the better elements And kindly stars have given A f…