The Arms Are Fair, When The Intent

Well, Honor Is The Subject Of My Story.

There's Nothing Ill Can Dwell In Such A Temple. If The Ill Spirit Have So Fair A House, Good Things Will Strive To Dwell With't

Thus Weary Of The World, Away She Hies, And Yokes Her Silver Doves; By Whose Swift Aid Their Mistress Mounted Through The Empty Skies In Her Light Chariot Quickly Is Convey'd; Holding Their Course To Paphos, Where Their Queen Means To Immure Herself And Not Be Seen.

Despair And Die. The Ghosts

Winter, Which, Being Full Of Care, Makes Summer's Welcome Thrice More Wish'd, More Rare.