If By Chance I Talk A Little

All Impediments In Fancy's Course Are Motives Of More Fancy.

I Can Get No Remedy Against This Consumption Of The Purse: Borrowing Only Lingers And Lingers It Out, But The Disease Is Incurable.

I Am Thy Father's Spirit; Doom'd For A Certain Term To Walk The Night And, For The Day, Confin'd To Fast In Fires, Till The Foul Crimes, Done In My Days Of Nature, Are Burnt And Purg'd Away.

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.

Love's Stories Written In Love's Richest Books. To Fan The Moonbeams From His Sleeping Eyes.