Good God, The Souls Of All My

For I Am Proverbed With A Grandsire Phrase.

Constant You Are, But Yet A Woman; And For Secrecy, No Lady Closer; For I Well Believe Thou Wilt Not Utter What Thou Dost Not Know.

Sweet Flowers Are Slow And Weeds Make Haste.

Opinion, A Sovereign Mistress Of Effects.

I Can No Other Answer Make, But, Thanks, And Thanks.