In Time We Hate That Which We

On A Day - Alack The Day! - Love, Whose Month Is Ever May, Spied A Blossom Passing Fair Playing In The Wanton Air

That Which In Mean Men We Entitle Patience Is Pale Cold Cowardice In Noble Breasts.

Still Constant Is A Wondrous Excellence.

Flower Of This Purple Dye, Hit With Cupid's Archery, Sink In Apple Of His Eye.

The Breach Of Custom Is Breach Of All.