How Long A Time Lies In One

Discomfort Guides My Tongue And Bids Me Speak Of Nothing But Despair.

It Is Thyself, Mine Own Self's Better Part; Mine Eye's Clear Eye, My Dear Heart's Dearer Heart; My Food, My Fortune, And My Sweet Hope's Aim, My Sole Earth's Heaven, And My Heaven's Claim.

Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day? Thou Art More Lovely And More Temperate: Rough Winds Do Shake The Darling Buds Of May, And Summer's Lease Hath All Too Short A Date . . .

We Bring Forth Weeds When Our Quick Minds Lie Still.

O Father Abram, What These Christians Are, Whose Own Hard Dealing Teaches Them Suspect The Thoughts Of Others!