I Have A Bone To Pick With

In Religion, What Damned Error But Some Sober Brow Will Bless It, And Approve It With A Text, Hiding The Grossness With Fair Ornament?

Nature's Tears Are Reason's Merriment.

Thou Hast Her, France; Let Her Be Thine, For We Have No Such Daughter, Nor Shall Ever See That Face Of Hers Again. Therefore Be Gone Without Our Grace, Our Love, Our Benison.

Love Runs Away From Those Chasing Her, And Those Who Run Away, She Throws Herself On His Neck.

Have Patience, And Endure