O Hell! To Choose Love With Another's

Pardon's The Word To All.

Mine Eyes Were Not In Fault, For She Was Beautiful; Mine Ears, That Heard Her Flattery; Nor My Heart, That Thought Her Like Her Seeming. It Had Been Vicious To Have Mistrusted Her.

I Love Thee, I Love Thee With A Love That Shall Not Die. Till The Sun Grows Cold And The Stars Grow Old.

Fat Paunches Have Lean Pates, And Dainty Bits Make Rich The Ribs, But Backrout Quite The Wits.

Shall We Upon The Footing Of Our Land Send Fair-play Orders, And Make Compromise, Insinuation, Parley, And Base Truce, To Arms Invasive?