The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In

There's Not A Note Of Mine That's Worth The Noting.

Now Is The Winter Of Our Discontent Made Glorious Summer By This Sun Of York; And All The Clouds That Lour'd Upon Our House In The Deep Bosom Of The Ocean Buried.

Sin From Thy Lips? O Trespass Sweetly Urged! Give Me My Sin Again.

Hear My Soul Speak. Of The Very Instant That I Saw You, Did My Heart Fly At Your Service

So Full Of Shapes Is Fancy