The Nakedness Of Woman Is The Work

Little Fly, Thy Summer's Play My Thoughtless Hand Has Brushed Away. Am Not I A Fly Like Thee? Or Art Not Thou A Man Like Me? For I Dance And Drink And Sing, Till Some Blind Hand Shall Brush My Wing!

Kill Not The Moth Nor Butterfly, For The Last Judgement Draweth Nigh.

O Autumn, Laden With Fruit, And Stained With The Blood Of The Grape, Pass Not, But Sit Beneath My Shady Roof; There Thou May'st Rest, And Tune Thy Jolly Voice To My Fresh Pipe; And All The Daughters Of The Year Shall Dance! Sing Now The Lusty Song Of Fruit And Flowers.

The Ancient Poets Animated All Sensible Objects With Gods Or Geniuses, Calling Them By The Names And Adorning Them With The Properties Of Woods, Rivers, Mountains, Lakes, Cities, Nations, And Whatever Their Enlarged & Numerous Senses Could Perceive.

The Bat That Flits At Close Of Eve Has Left The Brain That Won't Believe. The Owl That Calls Upon The Night Speaks The Unbeliever's Fright.