The Clock Upbraids Me With The Waste

Enjoy The Honey-heavy Dew Of Slumber.

Hereafter, In A Better World Than This, I Shall Desire More Love And Knowledge Of You

Presume Not That I Am The Thing I Was.

Small Things Make Base Men Proud.

If I Profane With My Unworthiest Hand This Holy Shrine, The Gentle Fine Is This: My Lips, Two Blushing Pilgrims, Ready Stand To Smooth That Rough Touch With A Tender Kiss.