Pack, clouds, away! and welcome, day! With night we banish sorrow. Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft To give my Love good-morrow! Wings from the wind to please her mind, Notes from the lark I'll borrow: Bird, prune thy wing! nightingale, sing!
More from Thomas Heywood
Seven cities warred for Homer being dead, Who living had no roofe to shrowd his head. 2
Permalink to quote #4 I hold he loves me best that calls me Tom.
Permalink to quote #3 Her that ruled the rost in the kitchen.
Permalink to quote #2