All Men's Faces Are True, Whatsome'er Their

Old Time The Clock-setter.

I Can Again Thy Former Light Restore, Should I Repent Me: But Once Put Out Thy Light, Thou Cunning'st Pattern Of Excelling Nature, I Know Not Where Is That Promethean Heat That Can Thy Light Relume.

Yea From The Table Of My Memory I'll Wipe Away All Trivial Fond Records.

I Have More Care To Stay Than Will To Go.

The Summer's Flower Is To The Summer Sweet Though To Itself It Only Live And Die