I Had Rather Live With Cheese And

Tired With All These For Restful Death I Cry, As To Behold Desert A Beggar Born, And Needy Nothing Trimmed In Jollity, And Purest Faith Unhappily Forsworn.

For Now They Kill Me With A Living Death.

In Jest, There Is Truth.

The Gray-eyed Morn Smiles On The Frowning Night, Checkering The Eastern Clouds With Streaks Of Light.

But No Perfection Is So Absolute, That Some Impurity Doth Not Pollute.