Every Cloud Has A Silver Lining.

If It Come To Prohibiting, There Is Aught More Likely To Be Prohibited Than Truth Itself.

Now Came Still Evening On; And Twilight Gray Had In Her Sober Livery All Things Clad: Silence Accompanied; For Beast And Bird, They To They Grassy Couch, These To Their Nests, Were Slunk, All But The Wakeful Nightingale.

Sweet Is The Breath Of Morn, Her Rising Sweet, With Charm Of Earliest Birds.

What Honour That, But Tedious Waste Of Time, To Sit And Hear So Many Hollow Compliments And Lies.

Moping Melancholy And Moon-struck Madness.