'tis The Year's Midnight, And It Is

Women Are Like The Arts, Forced Unto None, Open To All Searchers, Unprized, If Unknown.

Nature Hath No Goal Though She Hath Law.

As Virtuous Men Pass Mildly Away, And Whisper To Their Souls To Go, Whilst Some Of Their Sad Friends Do Say, The Breath Goes Now, And Some Say No.

Love Built On Beauty, Soon As Beauty, Dies.

Can There Be Worse Sickness, Than To Know That We Are Never Well, Nor Can Be So?