Come Give Us A Taste

Who Is It That Can Tell Me Who I Am?

As Chaste As Is The Bud Ere It Be Blown.

Nature's Tears Are Reason's Merriment.

We Cannot Fight For Love, As Men May Do; We Shou'd Be Woo'd, And Were Not Made To Woo

The Native Hue Of Resolution Is Sicklied O'er With The Pale Cast Of Thought; And Enterprises Of Great Pitch And Moment, With This Regard, Their Currents Turn Awry, And Lose The Name Of Action.