Leave Us To Our Free Election.

Never Durst Poet Touch A Pen To Write Until His Ink Were Temper'd With Love's Sighs.

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.

Leave Us To Our Free Election.

The Play's The Thing.

Men At Sometime Are The Masters Of Their Fate.