It Hurts Not The Tongue To Give

For Though The Camomile, The More It Is Trodden On The Faster It Grows, Yet Youth, The More It Is Wasted, The Sooner It Wears.

Adieu, Adieu, Adieu! Remember Me.

And All My Mother Came Into Mine Eyes And Gave Me Up To Tears.

These Cardinals Trifle With Me; I Abhor; This Dilatory Sloth And Tricks Of Rome.

Nor Aught So Good But Strained From That Fair Use, Revolts From True Birth Stumbling On Abuse.