In Thy Face I See The Map

I Am A Feather For Each Wind That Blows

And Therefore Is Love Said To Be A Child, Because In Choice He Is So Oft Beguil'd

The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose, And On Old Hiems' Thin And Icy Crown An Odorous Chaplet Of Sweet Summer Buds Is, As In Mockery, Set. The Spring, The Summer, The Childing Autumn, Angry Winter, Change Their Wonted Liveries, And The Mazed World, By Their Increase, Now Knows Not Which Is Which.

It Will Have Blood, They Say; Blood Will Have Blood.

For To Be Wise And Love Exceeds Man's Might.