Their Lips Were Four Red Roses On

Melancholy Is The Nurse Of Frenzy.

But To My Mind, Though I Am Native Here, And To The Manner Born, It Is A Custom, More Honored In The Breach Than The Observance.

The Quality Of Nothing Hath Not Such Need To Hide Itself

Divers Philosophers Hold That The Lips Is Parcel Of The Mouth.

Behold The Threaden Sails, Borne With The Invisible And Creeping Wind, Draw The Huge Bottoms Through The Furrow'd Sea, Breasting The Lofty Surge