These Words Are Razors To My Wounded

I Thought My Heart Had Been Wounded With The Claws Of A Lion.

And When I Am Forgotten, As I Shall Be, And Asleep In Dull Cold Marble, Where No Mention Of Me Must Be Heard Of, Say, I Taught Thee.

Some Sins Do Bear Their Privilege On Earth, And So Doth Yours: Your Fault Was Not Your Folly; Needs Must You Lay Your Heart At His Dispose, Subjected Tribute To Commanding Love, Against Whose Fury And Unmatched Force The Aweless Lion Could Not Wage The Fight Nor Keep His Princely Heart From Richard's Hand.

The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose, And On Old Hiems' Thin And Icy Crown An Odorous Chaplet Of Sweet Summer Buds Is, As In Mockery, Set. The Spring, The Summer, The Childing Autumn, Angry Winter, Change Their Wonted Liveries, And The Mazed World, By Their Increase, Now Knows Not Which Is Which.

Have More Than Thou Showest, Speak Less Than Thou Knowest, Lend Less Than Thou Owest.