The Rain, It Raineth Every Day.

A Very Ancient And Fish-like Smell.

That Strain Again! It Had A Dying Fall: O, It Came O'er My Ear Like The Sweet Sound That Breathes Upon A Bank Of Violets, Stealing And Giving Odour! Enough; No More: 'tis Not So Sweet As It Was Before.

Were Beauty Under Twenty Locks Kept Fast, Yet Love Breaks Through And Picks Them All At Last.

As Full Of Spirit As The Month Of May, And As Gorgeous As The Sun In Midsummer.

My Meaning In Saying He Is A Good Man, Is To Have You Understand Me That He Is Sufficient.