I'll Fight, Till From My Bones My

Thou Shouldst Not Have Been Old Till Thou Hadst Been Wise.

Cordelia! Stay A Little. Ha! What Is't Thou Say'st? Her Voice Was Ever Soft.

These Are The Forgeries Of Jealousy; And Never, Since The Middle Summer's Spring, Met We On Hill, In Dale, Forest, Or Mead, By Paved Fountain Or By Rushy Brook, Or In The Beached Margent Of The Sea, To Dance Our Ringlets To The Whistling Wind, But With Thy Brawls Thou Hast Disturbed Our Sport.

God Grant Us Patience!

Make The Upcoming Hour Overflow With Joy, And Let Pleasure Drown The Brim.