My Love To Thee Is Sound, Sans

It Is A Heretic That Makes The Fire, Not She Which Burns In It.

Fruits That Blossom First Will First Be Ripe.

Words To Deeds Cold Breath Gives.

My Long Sickness Of Health And Living Now Begins To Mend, And Nothing Brings Me All Things.

Be Not Thy Tongue Thy Own Shame's Orator.