William Julius Mickle Poems

The dews of summer nighte did falle,
The moone (sweete regente of the skye)
Silver'd the walles of Cumnor Halle,
And manye an oake that grewe therebye.
...

And are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think o' wark?
Mak haste, lay by your wheel;
...

And are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think o' wark?
...