I Would We Were All Of One

The Poorest Service Is Repaid With Thanks.

Our Wills And Fates Do So Contrary Run, That Our Devices Still Are Overthrown; Our Thoughts Are Ours, Their Ends None Of Our Own.

There Is A Willow Grows Aslant A Brook, That Shows His Hoar Leaves In The Glassy Stream; There With Fantastic Garlands Did She Come Of Crow-flowers, Nettles, Daisies, And Long Purples That Liberal Shepherds Give A Grosser Name, But Our Cold Maids Do Dead Men's Fingers Call Them: There, On The Pendent Boughs Her Coronet Weeds Clambering To Hang, An Envious Sliver Broke; When Down Her Weedy Trophies And Herself Fell In The Weeping Brook.

The Best Is Yet To Come.

For They Are Yet Ear-kissing Arguments.