The Seeming Truth Which Cunning Times Put

Time Hath, My Lord, A Wallet At His Back Wherein He Puts Alms For Oblivion, A Great-sized Monster Of Ingratitudes: Those Scraps Are Good Deeds Past, Which Are Devour'd As Fast As They Are Made, Forgot As Soon As Done.

So Many Hours Must I Take My Rest; So Many Hours Must I Contemplate.

Instead Of Weeping When A Tragedy Occurs In A Songbird's Life, It Sings Away Its Grief. I Believe We Could Well Follow The Pattern Of Our Feathered Friends.

Soft Pity Enters An Iron Gate.

A Very Honest Woman But Something Given To Lie