close
Tell me that she hath seen
And every close did meet
Oh， but my conscious fears，
That sits in shadow of Apollo's tree.
As all these， through her eyes， have stopt her ears
For else it could not be，
That she，
And cast my love behind：
As hath the youngest he，
My mountain belly and my rock face，
Whom I adore so much， should so slight me，
I'm sure my language was as sweet，
Ladders
My hundreds of gray hairs，
by Ben Jonson
Told seven and forty years，
In sentence of as subtle feet
Read so much waist， as she cannot embrace
I now think love is rather deaf， than blind，
That fly my thoughts between，
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