I'll Say She Looks As Clear As

Remembrance Of Things Past.

So Sweet Was Ne'er So Fatal. I Must Weep. But They Are Creul Tears. This Sorrow's Heavenly; It Strikes Where It Doth Love.

My Free Drift Halts Not Particularly, But Moves Itself In A Wide Sea Of Wax; No Levelled Malice Infects One Comma In The Course I Hold, But Flies An Eagle Flight, Bold And Forth On, Leaving No Tract Behind.

Rough Winds Do Shake The Darling Buds Of May.

Go Hang Yourself, You Naughty Mocking Uncle!