All Things That Are, Are With More

An Old Black Ram Is Tupping Your White Ewe

If I Could Write The Beauty Of Your Eyes And In Fresh Numbers Number All Your Graces, The Age To Come Would Say, 'this Poet Lies; Such Heavenly Touches Ne'er Touch'd Earthly Faces.'

Gently To Hear, Kindly To Judge.

Well-apparel'd April On The Heel Of Limping Winter Treads.

However Wickedness Outstrips Men, It Has No Wings To Fly From God.