Away! Thou'rt Poison To My Blood.

For Truth Hath Better Deeds Than Words To Grace It.

Words To Deeds Cold Breath Gives.

I Am Sure, Though You Can Guess What Temperance Should Be, You Know Not What It Is.

For Grief Is Crowned With Consolation.

This Feather Stirs; She Lives! If It Be So, It Is A Chance Which Does Redeem All Sorrows That Ever I Have Felt.