Rebellion In This Land Shall Lose His

True, I Talk Of Dreams, Which Are The Children Of An Idle Brain, Begot Of Nothing But Vain Fantasy.

But She Makes Hungry Where She Most Satisfies.

Every Cloud Engenders Not A Storm.

Ere I Could Make Thee Open Thy White Hand, And Clap Thyself My Love; Then Didst Thou Utter, I Am Your's For Ever!

The Apparel Oft Proclaims The Man.