Wrong Hath But Wrong, And Blame The

The Eye Of Man Hath Not Heard, The Ear Of Man Hath Not Seen, Man's Hand Is Not Able To Taste, His Tongue To Conceive, Nor His Heart To Report, What My Dream Was.

I Crave Fit Disposition For My Wife; Due Reference Of Place, And Exhibition; With Such Accommodation, And Besort, As Levels With Her Breeding.

The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose, And On Old Hiems' Thin And Icy Crown An Odorous Chaplet Of Sweet Summer Buds Is, As In Mockery, Set. The Spring, The Summer, The Childing Autumn, Angry Winter, Change Their Wonted Liveries, And The Mazed World, By Their Increase, Now Knows Not Which Is Which.

I Will Make Thee Think Thy Swan A Crow.

Read O'er This And After, This, And Then To Breakfast With What Appetite You Have.