For Naught So Vile That On The

When Thou Cam'st First, Thou Strok'st Me And Made Much Of Me; Wouldst Give Me Water With Berries In't; And Teach Me How To Name The Bigger Light, And How The Less, That Burn By Day And Night; And Then I Loved Thee And Showed Thee All The Qualities O' Th' Isle, The Fresh Springs, Brine-pits, Barren Place And Fertile.

Ay Me! For Aught That I Could Ever Read, Could Ever Hear By Tale Or History, The Course Of True Love Never Did Run Smooth. But, Either It Was Different In Blood,- Or Else It Stood Upon The Choice Of Friends,- Or, If There Were A Sympathy In Choice, War, Death, Or Sickness Did Lay Siege To It.

Kent. Where's The King? Gent. Contending With The Fretful Elements; Bids The Wind Blow The Earth Into The Sea, Or Swell The Curled Waters 'bove The Main, That Things Might Change Or Cease; Tears His White Hair, Which The Impetuous Blasts, With Eyeless Rage, Catch In Their Fury And Make Nothing Of; Strives In His Little World Of Man To Outscorn The To-and-fro-conflicting Wind And Rain. This Night, Wherein The Cub-drawn Bear Would Couch, The Lion And The Belly-pinched Wolf Keep Their Fur Dry, Unbonneted He Runs, And Bids What Will Take All.

Strong Reasons Make Strong Actions.

Age, I Do Abhor Thee, Youth, I Do Adore Thee.