Speak, My Fair, And Fairly, I Pray

Lawn As White As Driven Snow; Cyprus Black As E'er Was Crow; Gloves As Sweet As Damask Roses.

Good With Out Evil Is Like Light With Out Darkness Which In Turn Is Like Righteousness Whith Out Hope.

I'll Break My Staff, Bury It Certain Fathoms In The Earth, And Deeper Than Did Ever Plummet Sound, I'll Drown My Book!

O How Wretched Is That Poor Man That Hangs On Princes Favors! There Is Betwixt That Smile We Would Aspire To, That Sweet Aspect Of Princes, And Their Ruin, More Pangs And Fears Than Wars Or Women Have, And When He Falls, He Falls Like Lucifer, Never To Hope Again.

How Sweet The Moonlight Sleeps Upon This Bank! Here Will We Sit, And Let The Sounds Of Music Creep In Our Ears; Soft Stillness And The Night Become The Touches Of Sweet Harmony. Sit, Jessica: Look, How The Floor Of Heaven Is Thick Inlaid With Patines Of Bright Gold; There's Not The Smallest Orb Which Thou Behold'st But In His Motion Like An Angel Sings, Still Quiring To The Young-eyed Cherubins. Such Harmony Is In Immortal Souls; But Whilst This Muddy Vesture Of Decay Doth Grossly Close It In, We Cannot Hear It.