I Can No Longer Live By Thinking.

Hot Lavender, Mints, Savory, Marjoram; The Marigold, That Goes To Bed Wi' The Sun, And With Him Rise Weeping.

Oh, Injurious Love, That Respites Me A Life, Whose Very Comfort Is Still A Dying Horror

Fondling,' She Saith, 'since I Have Hemm'd Thee Here Within The Circuit Of This Ivory Pale, I'll Be A Park, And Thou Shalt Be My Deer; Feed Where Thou Wilt, On Mountain Or In Dale: Graze On My Lips, And If Those Hills Be Dry, Stray Lower, Where The Pleasant Fountains Lie.

Now Let It Work. Mischief, Thou Art Afoot. Take Thou What Course Thou Wilt.

Your Date Is Better In Your Pie And Your Porridge Than In Your Cheek.