Let Me Not To The

In Thy Foul Throat Thou Liest.

How Much An Ill Word May Empoison Liking!

Angels Are Bright Still, Though The Brightest Fell. Though All Things Foul Would Wear The Brows Of Grace, Yet Grace Must Still Look So.

Four Days Will Quickly Steep Themselves In Nights; Four Nights Will Quickly Dream Away The Time; And Then The Moon, Like To A Silver Bow New Bent In Heaven, Shall Behold The Night Of Our Solemnities.

The Horn, The Horn, The Lusty Horn Is Not A Thing To Laugh To Scorn.