A Nun Of Winter's Sisterhood Kisses Not

O God, I Could Be Bound In A Nutshell, And Count Myself A King Of Infinite Space – Were It Not That I Have Bad Dreams.

Within The Hollow Crown That Rounds The Mortal Temples Of A King Keeps Death His Court.

Enough No More; Tis Not So Sweet Now As It Was Before.

I Know A Bank Where The Wild Thyme Blows, Where Oxlips And The Nodding Violet Grows, Quite Over-canopied With Luscious Woodbine, With Sweet Musk-roses And With Eglantine.

But Virtue Never Will Be Mov'd, Though Lewdness Court It In A Shape Of Heaven.