The Gods Are Just, And Of Our

Travelers Never Did Lie, Though Fools At Home Condemn Them.

Angels Are Bright Still, Though The Brightest Fell. Though All Things Foul Would Wear The Brows Of Grace, Yet Grace Must Still Look So.

Conscience Is A Thousand Swords.

Lady, With Me, With Me Thy Fortune Lies.

As Full Of Spirit As The Month Of May, And As Gorgeous As The Sun In Midsummer.