Thy Food Is Such As Hath Been

I Will Not Trust You, I, Nor Longer Stay In Your Curst Company. Your Hands Than Mine Are Quicker For A Fray, My Legs Are Longer Though, To Run Away.

If Ever (as That Ever May Be Near) You Meet In Some Fresh Cheek The Power Of Fancy, Then Shall You Know The Wounds Invisible That Love's Keen, Arrows Make.

I Wasted Time, And Now Doth Time Waste Me; For Now Hath Time Made Me His Numbering Clock: My Thoughts Are Minutes; And With Sighs They Jar Their Watches On Unto Mine Eyes, The Outward Watch, Whereto My Finger, Like A Dial's Point, Is Pointing Still, In Cleansing Them From Tears. Now Sir, The Sound That Tells What Hour It Is Are Clamorous Goans, Which Strike Upon My Heart, Which Is The Bell: So Sighs And Tears And Groans Show Minutes, Times, And Hours.

The Devil Is A Gentleman.

Miracles Are Ceased; And Therefore We Must Needs Admit The Means, How Things Are Perfected.