There's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green, There's not a bonnie bird that sings But minds me o' my Jean.

I have been perpetually troubled with sickness of late, which has made me so melancholy that the Immortality of the Soul has been my constant Speculation, as the Mortality of my Body my constant Plague.

[I will] pluck the borrowed veil of modesty from the so seeming Mistress Page.

The silver strings of heavenly harp atween: And let there glide by many a pearly car, Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar