Thou Weedy Elf-skinned Canker-blossom!

Because It Is A Customary Cross, As Die To Love As Thoughts, And Dreams, And Sighs, Wishes, And Tears, Poor Fancy's Followers.

All Things That We Ordained Festival Turn From Their Office To Black Funeral-- Our Instruments To Melancholy Bells, Our Wedding Cheer To A Sad Burial Feast; Our Solemn Hymns To Sullen Dirges Change; Our Bridal Flowers Serve For A Buried Corse; And All Things Change Them To The Contrary.

Good Morning To You, Fair And Gracious Daughter.

If Ever Thou Be'st Bound In Thy Scarf And Beaten, Thou Shalt Find What It Is To Be Proud Of Thy Bondage.

We Are Such Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of.