What Ugly Sights Of Death Within Mine

For Truth Hath Better Deeds Than Words To Grace It.

She Marking Them Begins A Wailing Note And Sings Extemporally A Woeful Ditty How Love Makes Young Men Thrall And Old Men Dote How Love Is Wise In Folly, Foolish-witty Her Heavy Anthem Still Concludes In Woe, And Still The Choir Of Echoes Answer So.

We Make Guilty Of Our Disasters The Sun, The Moon, And The Stars; As If We Were Villians By Compulsion.

In Friendship, As In Love, We Are Often Happier Through Our Ignorance Than Our Knowledge.

I'll Say She Looks As Clear As Morning Roses Newly Washed With Dew.