All Hoods Make Not Monks.

When I Bestride Him, I Soar, I Am A Hawk: He Trots The Air; The Earth Sings When He Touches It; The Basest Horn Of His Hoof Is More Musical Than The Pipe Of Hermes.

For There's No Motion That Tends To Vice In Man, But I Affirm It Is The Woman's Part.

If He Be So Resolved, I Can O'ersway Him; For He Loves To Hear That Unicorns May Be Betrayed With Trees And Bears With Glasses, Elephants With Holes, Lions With Toils, And Men With Flatterers

The Hind That Would Be Mated By The Lion Must Die For Love.

Strikes Deeper, Grows With More Pernicious Root.