And Oft, My Jealousy Shapes Faults That

Prepare For Mirth, For Mirth Becomes A Feast.

A Rotten Case Abides No Handling.

As There Comes Light From Heaven And Words From Breath, As There Is Sense In Truth And Truth In Virtue

Can We Outrun The Heavens?

Ere I Could Make Thee Open Thy White Hand, And Clap Thyself My Love; Then Didst Thou Utter, I Am Your's For Ever!