Take Her Away; For She

Beauty Is Bought By Judgement Of The Eye.

Men At Sometime Are The Masters Of Their Fate.

My Long Sickness Of Health And Living Now Begins To Mend, And Nothing Brings Me All Things.

I Should Think This A Gull, But That The White-bearded Fellow Speaks It; Knavery Cannot, Sure, Hide Himself In Such Reverence.

Make Me A Willow Cabin At Your Gate, And Call Upon My Soul Within The House; Write Loyal Cantons Of Contemned Love And Sing Them Loud Even In The Dead Of Night.