Blasphemous Words Betray The Vain Foolishness Of

O Sweet Woods, The Delight Of Solitariness!

Who Shoots At The Mid-day Sun, Though He Be So Sure He Shall Never Hit The Mark, Yet As Sure As He Is, He Shall Shoot Higher Than He Who Aims At A Bush.

Cupid Makes It His Sport To Pull The Warrior's Plum.

My True Love Hath My Heart, And I Have His

Sweet Food Of Sweetly Uttered Knowledge.