Oh, She Doth Teach The Torches To

What's Done Cannot Be Undone. To Bed, To Bed, To Bed.

Nymph, In Thy Orisons Be All My Sins Remembered!

Were It My Cue To Fight, I Should Have Known It Without A Prompter.

Let Us Not Burden Our Remembrances With A Heaviness That's Gone.

. . . It Is Impossible You Should Take True Root But By The Fair Weather That You Make Yourself It Is Needful That You Frame The Season Of Your Own Harvest.