Oh Rose, thou art sick! The invisible worm That flies in the night, In the howling storm, Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy, And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy. - William Blake		Beauty, thou scene of love, And Virtue, thou innocent fire, Made by the powers above To temper the heat of desire, Music that fancy employs In rapture of innocent flame, We offer with lute and with voice To Cecilia, Cecilia's bright name. - Christopher Fishburn
Busy curious, thirsty fly Drink with me, and drink as I Freely welcome to my cup, Couldst thou sip, and sip it up. Make the most of life you may; Life is short, and wears away. Both alike are mine and thine, Hastening quick to their decline; Thine's a summer, mine's no more, Though repeated to threescore! Threescore summers, when they're gone, Will appear as short as one. - Anonymous, 1744		At night is when the mud calls to me I cannot yet obey that carnal cry So bless the fear that binds and sets me free The mud is payment of a beauty fee A lonely ire that we must pacify At night is when the mud calls to me They sate their lust in muddy perfidy And kneeling piously they curse the sky So bless the fear that binds and sets me free Proud spirits will ignore our patient plee,. Protecting harmony that we defy. At night is when the mud calls to me The fear is a gift of dire clemency Bestowing life, yet for it, we will die So bless the fear that binds and sets me free A search for sin, but finding piety; They dig in mud a pit where all may lie At night is when the mud calls to me So bless the fear that binds and sets me free - Dafydd Sikard