Festive Alcohol Sometimes Leads To An Excess

On A Huge Hill, Cragged, And Steep, Truth Stands, And Hee That Will Reach Her, About Must, And About Must Goo.

Death Be Not Proud, Though Some Have Called Thee Mighty And Dreadful, For Thou Art Not So. For, Those, Whom Thou Think'st Thou Dost Overthrow. Die Not, Poor Death, Nor Yet Canst Thou Kill Me.

Women Are Like The Arts, Forced Unto None, Open To All Searchers, Unprized, If Unknown.

Poetry Is A Counterfeit Creation, And Makes Things That Are Not, As Though They Were

All Other Things To Their Destruction Draw, Only Our Love Hath No Decay.