He Hath Eaten Me Out Of House

Sin From Thy Lips? O Trespass Sweetly Urged! Give Me My Sin Again.

These Are The Forgeries Of Jealousy; And Never, Since The Middle Summer's Spring, Met We On Hill, In Dale, Forest, Or Mead, By Paved Fountain Or By Rushy Brook, Or In The Beached Margent Of The Sea, To Dance Our Ringlets To The Whistling Wind, But With Thy Brawls Thou Hast Disturbed Our Sport.

Fair Is Foul, And Foul Is Fair, Hover Through Fog And Filthy Air.

The Undiscovered Country From Whose Bourn No Traveler Returns.

So Holy Writ In Babes Hath Judgment Shown When Judges Have Been Babes; Great Floods Have Flown From Simple Sources, And Great Seas Have Dried When Miracles Have By The Greatest Been Denied.