Edward Andrade

"Come, take hands, you are not such As this will weary overmuch. Sit we down, and hear rehearse The marvels of the sweet-souled verse"

"You know the wild flowers suit your hair: Place hands full of the purple bloom Of loosestrife, glad of such soft doom, And tender-toned narcissus there"

"Your father bears an iron reed Filled with a flame that makes us bleed; Your kindly mother loves to tear Feathers and skin to deck her hair."