Our Holy Lives Must Win A New

What A Fool Honesty Is.

The Poet's Eye, In A Fine Frenzy Rolling, Doth Glance From Heaven To Earth, From Earth To Heaven; And As Imagination Bodies Forth The Forms Of Things Unknown, The Poet's Pen Turns Them To Shape, And Gives To Airy Nothing A Local Habitation And A Name; Such Tricks Hath Strong Imagination.

The Moon Of Rome, Chaste As The Icicle That's Curded By The Frost From Purest Snow.

Tis A Happy Thing To Be The Father Unto Many Sons.

Unnatural Deeds Do Breed Unnatural Troubles.