Her Passions Are Made Of Nothing But

For I Am Nothing If Not Critical.

A Turn Or Two I'll Walk To Still My Beating Mind.

Love Will Not Be Spurred To What It Loathes

When Daffodils Begin To Peer, With Heigh! The Doxy, Over The Dale, Why, Then Comes In The Sweet O' The Year; For The Red Blood Reigns In The Winter's Pale. The White Sheet Bleaching On The Hedge, With Heigh! The Sweet Birds, O, How They Sing! Doth Set My Pugging Tooth On Edge; For A Quart Of Ale Is A Dish For A King.

There Is None But He Whose Being I Do Fear; And Under Him My Genius Is Rebuked, As It Is Said Mark Antony's Was By Caesar.