Jigging Veins Of Rhyming Mother

Time Doth Run With Calm And Silent Foot, Shortening My Days And Thread Of Vital Life.

Live And Die In Aristotle's Works.

Cut Is The Branch That Might Have Grown Full Straight, And Burned Is Apollo's Laurel Bough, That Sometime Grew Within This Learned Man. Faustus Is Gone.

Till Swollen With Cunning, Of A Self-conceit, His Waxen Wings Did Mount Above His Reach, And, Melting, Heavens Conspir'd His Overthrow.

Was This The Face That Launched A Thousand Ships, And Burnt The Topless Towers Of Ileum?