The Filth Under The White Snow, The

Into A Mouth Shut Flies Flie Not.

Who Says That Fictions Only And False Hair Become A Verse? Is There In Truth No Beauty? Is All Good Structure In A Winding Stair?

The God Of Love My Shepherd Is, And He That Doth Me Feed: While He Is Mine, And I Am His, What Can I Want Or Need?

He That Lies With The Dogs, Riseth With Fleas.

Be What Thou Wouldst Seeme To Be.