Leave Us To Our Free Election.

I Am Giddy, Expectation Whirls Me Round. The Imaginary Relish Is So Sweet That It Enchants My Sense.

To Bed, To Bed; Sleep Kill Those Pretty Eyes, And Give As Soft Attachment To Thy Senses, As Infants Empty Of All Thought.

Like A Dull Actor Now, I Have Forgot My Part, And I Am Out, Even To A Full Disgrace.

Piece Out Our Imperfections With Your Thoughts.

All Hoods Make Not Monks.