Dreams Are The Children Of Idled Minds.

As True As Steel, As Plantage To The Moon, As Sun To Day, At Turtle To Her Mate, As Iron To Adamant, As Earth To Centre.

Now 'tis Spring, And Weeds Are Shallow-rooted; Suffer Them Now And They'll O'ergrow The Garden.

O Horror! Horror! Horror! Tongue Nor Heart Cannot Conceive Nor Name Thee!

No Deeper Wrinkles Yet? Hath Sorrow Struck So Many Blows Upon This Face Of Mine And Made No Deeper Wounds?

I Must Be Cruel Only To Be Kind; Thus Bad Begins, And Worse Remains Behind.