Her Passions Are Made Of Nothing But

Policy Sits Above Conscience.

From Camp To Camp, Through The Foul Womb Of Night, The Hum Of Either Army Stilly Sounds, That The Fixed Sentinels Almost Receive The Secret Whispers Of Each Other's Watch. Fire Answers Fire, And Through Their Play Flames Each Battle Sees The Other's Umbered Face. Steed Threatens Steed, In High And Boastful Neighs Piercing The Night's Dull Ear; And From The Tents The Armorers Accomplishing The Knights, With Busy Hammers Closing Rivets Up, Give Dreadful Note Of Preparation.

When My Love Swears That She Is Made Of Truth, I Do Believe Her, Though I Know She Lies.

I Am Falser Than Vows Made In Wine.

If Your Mind Dislike Anything Obey It