If We Are True To

You Know That I Do Fawn On Men, And Hug Them Hard, And After Scandal Them.

Fair Ladies, Masked, Are Roses In Their Bud; Dismasked, The Damask Sweet Commixture Shown, Are Angels Vailing Clouds, Or Roses Blown.

Divers Philosophers Hold That The Lips Is Parcel Of The Mouth.

Tis The Times' Plague, When Madmen Lead The Blind.

There's No More Faith In Thee Than In A Stewed Prune.