If You Be King, Why Should Not

Piece Out Our Imperfections With Your Thoughts.

Nay Then, Let The Devil Wear Black, For I'll Have A Suit Of Sables.

For Here, I Hope, Begins Our Lasting Joy.

Teach Me, Dear Creature, How To Think And Speak; Lay Open To My Earthy-gross Conceit, Smother'd In Errors, Feeble, Shallow, Weak, The Folded Meaning Of Your Words' Deceit.

Thou Art Thy Mother's Glass, And She In Thee Calls Back The Lovely April Of Her Prime...