Ornament Is But The Guiled Shore To

The Web Of Our Life Is Of A Mingled Yarn, Good And Ill Together: Our Virtues Would Be Proud If Our Faults Whipped Them Not; And Our Crimes Would Despair If They Were Not Cherished By Our Own Virtues.

Rude Am I In My Speech, And Little Blessed With The Soft Phrase Of Peace.

And All My Mother Came Into Mine Eyes And Gave Me Up To Tears.

But I Will Be, A Bridegroom In My Death, And Run Into't As To A Lover's Bed.

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