Would The Cook Were O' My Mind!

O Heaven! Were Man, But Constant, He Were Perfect.

You Are Made Rather To Wonder At The Things You Hear Than To Work Any.

I Know A Place Where The Wild Thyme Blows, Where Oxlips And The Nodding Violet Grows.

I Could A Tale Unfold Whose Lightest Word Would Harrow Up Thy Soul, Freeze Thy Young Blood, Make Thy Two Eyes Like Stars Start From Their Spheres, Thy Knotted And Combined Locks To Part, And Each Particular Hair To Stand On End Like Quills Upon The Fretful Porpentine. But This Eternal Blazon Must Not Be To Ears Of Flesh And Blood. List, List, O List!

Life Every Man Holds Dear; But The Dear Man Holds Honor Far More Precious Dear Than Life.