There Is None Of My

Like The Lily That Once Was Mistress Of The Field And Flourished, I'll Hang My Head And Perish.

If We Are True To Ourselves, We Can Not Be False To Anyone.

The Heavens Themselves, The Planets, And This Centre Observe Degree, Priority, And Place, Insisture, Course, Proportion, Season, Form, Office, And Custom, In All Line Of Order.

These Times Of Woe Afford No Time To Woo.

Where Every Something, Being Blent Together Turns To A Wild Of Nothing.