Truth Is Truth To The End Of

The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose.

Like One Who Having Into Truth, By Telling Of It, Made Such A Sinner Of His Memory, To Credit His Own Lie.

Tis A Blushing Shame-faced Spirit That Mutinies In A Man's Bosom. It Fills A Man Full Of Obstacles. It Made Me Once Restore A Purse Of Gold That (by Chance) I Found. It Beggars Any Man That Keeps It.

Hereditary Sloth Instructs Me.

So Are You To My Thoughts As Food To Life, Or As Sweet Seasoned Showers Are To The Ground.