I Cannot Tell What The Dickens His

A Woman Is A Dish For The Gods, If The Devil Dress Her Not.

God Shall Be My Hope, My Stay, My Guide And Lantern To My Feet.

Is Love A Tender Thing? It Is Too Rough, Too Rude, Too Boisterous, And It Pricks Like Thorn.

I Love Thee, I Love Thee With A Love That Shall Not Die. Till The Sun Grows Cold And The Stars Grow Old.

Dost Thou Love Hawking? Thou Hast Hawks Will Soar Above The Morning Lark.