Come Not Between The Dragon And His

The Heavens Forbid But That Our Loves And Comforts Should Increase Even As Our Days Do Grow!

For Man Is A Giddy Thing, And This Is My Conclusion.

That Time Of Year Thou Mayst In Me Behold When Yellow Leaves, Or None, Or Few, Do Hang Upon Those Boughs Which Shake Against The Cold, Bare Ruin'd Choirs, Where Late The Sweet Birds Sang. In Me Thou Seest The Twilight Of Such Day, As After Sunset Fadeth In The West, Which By-and-by Black Night Doth Take Away.

Our Jovial Star Reigned At His Birth.

I Cannot Speak Your England.