It Is A Basilisk Unto Mine Eye,

What E'er Thou Art, Act Well Thy Part.

Plenty And Peace Breed Cowards; Hardness Ever Of Hardiness Is Mother.

Our Very Eyes Are Sometimes, Like Our Judgments, Blind.

Because It Is A Customary Cross, As Die To Love As Thoughts, And Dreams, And Sighs, Wishes, And Tears, Poor Fancy's Followers.

The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose.