Joys Impregnate. Sorrows Bring Forth.

To Chloe's Breast Young Cupid Slily Stole, But He Crept In At Myra's Pocket-hole.

Ah, Sunflower, Weary Of Time, Who Countest The Steps Of The Sun, Seeking After That Sweet Golden Clime Where The Traveller's Journey Is Done; Where The Youth Pined Away With Desire And The Pale Virgin Shrouded In Snow Arise From Their Graves, And Aspire Where My Sunflower Wishes To Go.

For The Eye Altering Alters All; The Senses Roll Themselves In Fear And The Flat Earth Becomes A Ball.

The Wrath Of The Lion Is The Wisdom Of God.

Man Was Made For Joy And Woe, And When This We Rightly Know Through The World We Safely Go. Joy And Woe Are Woven Fine, A Clothing For The Soul To Bind.