Down From His Brow She Ran His

Wine Lead To Folly, Making Even The Wise To Laugh Immoderately, To Dance, And To Utter What Had Better Have Been Kept Silent.

We Battle On In Words, As Always, Mere Words, And What's The Cure? We Cannot Find A Thing.

...if Fifty Bands Of Men Surrounded Us/ And Every Sword Sang For Your Blood,/ You Could Make Off Still With Their Cows And Sheep.

It's About Time Trees Were Good For Something, Instead Of Just Standing There Like Jerks!

There Is Nothing More Dread And More Shameless Than A Woman Who Plans Such Deeds In Her Heart As The Foul Deed Which She Plotted When She Contrived Her Husband's Murder.