Covering Discretion With A Coat Of Folly.

I Have Unclasp'd To Thee The Book Even Of My Secret Soul.

And All This Day An Unaccustomed Spirit Lifts Me Above The Ground With Cheerful Thoughts.

Good Morrow, Fair Ones; Pray You, If You Know, Where In The Purlieus Of This Forest Stands A Sheep-cote Fenc'd About With Olive Trees?

These Earthly Godfathers Of Heaven's Lights, That Give A Name To Every Fixed Star, Have No More Profit Of Their Shining Nights Than Those That Walk And Know Not What They Are.

The Old Folk, Time's Doting Chronicles.