He That Keeps Not Crust Nor Crum

Summer's Lease Hath All Too Short A Date.

I Can See He's Not In Your Good Books,' Said The Messenger. 'no, And If He Were I Would Burn My Library.

I Humbly Do Beseech Of Your Pardon, For Too Much Loving You

The Pow'r That I Have On You Is To Spare You; The Malice Towards You To Forgive You.

Or Art Thou But / A Dagger Of The Mind, A False Creation, / Proceeding From The Heat-oppressed Brain?