Each Substance Of A Grief Has Twenty

Never Anything Can Be Amiss, When Simpleness And Duty Tender It.

Thus Die I, Thus, Thus, Thus. Now Am I Dead, Now Am I Fled; My Soul Is In The Sky: Tongue, Lose Thy Light; Moon Take Thy Flight. Now Die, Die, Die, Die, Die.

They Have Been At A Great Feast Of Languages, And Stolen The Scraps.

Until I Know This Sure Uncertainty, I'll Entertain The Offered Fallacy.

The Prize Of All Too Precious You.