Patch Up Thine Old Body For Heaven.

True, I Talk Of Dreams, Which Are The Children Of An Idle Brain, Begot Of Nothing But Vain Fantasy.

Love`s Reason`s Without Reason

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.

I Will Live In Thy Heart, Die In Thy Lap, And Be Buried In Thy Eyes—and Moreover, I Will Go With Thee To Thy Uncle’s.

The Earth, That Is Nature's Mother, Is Her Tomb.