Thou Canst Not Speak Of What Thou

Every Offense Is Not A Hate At First.

For Sorrow Ends Not, When It Seemeth Done.

The Cat Will Mew, And Dog Will Have His Day.

Wisdom Cries Out In The Streets, And No Man Regards It.

The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose, And On Old Hiems' Thin And Icy Crown An Odorous Chaplet Of Sweet Summer Buds Is, As In Mockery, Set. The Spring, The Summer, The Childing Autumn, Angry Winter, Change Their Wonted Liveries, And The Mazed World, By Their Increase, Now Knows Not Which Is Which.