Foul Whisp'rings Are Abroad.

Love Adds A Precious Seeing To The Eye.

Orpheus With His Lute Made Trees, And The Mountain Tops That Freeze, Bow Themselves, When He Did Sing; To His Music, Plants And Flowers Ever Sprung; As Sun And Showers There Had Made A Lasting Spring. Every Thing That Heard Him Play, Even The Billows Of The Sea, Hung Their Heads, And Then Lay By. In Sweet Music Is Such Art, Killing Care And Grief Of Heart Fall Asleep, Or Hearing, Die.

Light And Lust Are Deadly Enemies.

Frailty, Thy Name Is Woman!

I Charge Thee, Hence, And Do Not Haunt Me Thus.