At The Games End We Shall See

Shall I, To Please Another Wine-sprung Minde, Lose All Mine Own? God Hath Giv'n Me A Measure Short Of His Can And Body; Must I Find A Pain In That, Wherein He Finds A Pleasure?

Listen, Sweet Dove, Unto My Song, And Spread Thy Golden Wings In Me; Hatching My Tender Heart So Long, Till It Get Wing, And Flie Away With Thee.

There Is A Remedy For Every Thing, Could Men Find It.

All Things Require Skill But An Appetite.

The Wolf Must Die In His Own Skin.