You Are Strangely Troublesome.

A Ministering Angel Shall My Sister Be.

Having My Freedom, Boast Of Nothing Else.

Constant You Are, But Yet A Woman; And For Secrecy, No Lady Closer; For I Well Believe Thou Wilt Not Utter What Thou Dost Not Know.

Then Was I As A Tree Whose Boughs Did Bend With Fruit; But In One Night, A Storm Or Robbery, Call It What You Will, Shook Down My Mellow Hangings, Nay, My Leaves, And Left Me Bare To Weather.

Blessings Of Your Heart, You Brew Good Ale.