Their Lips Were Four Red Roses On

Speak Me Fair In Death.

Roses Have Thorns, And Silver Fountains Mud; Clouds And Eclipses Stain Both Moon And Sun, And Loathsome Canker Lies In Sweetest Bud. All Men Make Faults.

Women Are Angels, Wooing: Things Won Are Done; Joy's Soul Lies In The Doing: That She Beloved Knows Naught, That Knows Not This-- Men Prize The Thing Ungained More Than It Is.

And Yet, By Heaven, I Think My Love As Rare As Any She Belied With False Compare.

The Tongues Of Mocking Wenches Are As Keen As Is The Razor's Edge Invisible.