I now think love is rather deaf, than blind, For else it could not be, That she, Whom I adore so much, should so slight me, And cast my love behind: I'm sure my language was as sweet, And every close did meet In sentence of as subtle feet As hath the youngest he, That sits in shadow of Apollo's tree. Oh, but my conscious fears, That fly my thoughts between, Tell me that she hath seen My hundreds of gray hairs, Told seven and forty years, Read so much waist, as she cannot embrace My mountain belly and my rock face, As all these, through her eyes, have stopt her ears.
Ben Jonson - 1572-1637
Third Charm from Masque of Queens
The owl is abroad, the bat, and the toad, And so is the cat-a-mountain, The ant and the mole sit both in a hole, And the frog peeps out o' the fountain; The dogs they do bay, and the timbrels play, The spindle is now a turning; The moon it is red, and the stars are fled, But all the sky is a-burning: The ditch is made, and our nails the spade, With pictures full, of wax and of wool; Their livers I stick, with needles quick; There lacks but the blood, to make up the flood. Quickly, Dame, then bring your part in, Spur, spur upon little Martin, Merrily, merrily, make him fail, A worm in his mouth, and a thorn in his tail, Fire above, and fire below, With a whip in your hand, to make him go.