Age Cannot Wither Her, Nor

I Begin To Find An Idle And Fond Bondage In The Oppression Of Aged Tyranny, Who Sways, Not As It Hath Power, But As It Is Suffered.

Ornament Is But The Guiled Shore To A Most Dangerous Sea.

Love Thrives Not In The Heart That Shadows Dreadeth

Tell Me Where Is Fancy Bred, Or In The Heart, Or In The Head? How Begot, How Nourished? Reply, Reply. It Is Engend'red In The Eyes, With Gazing Fed, And Fancy Dies In The Cradle Where It Lies.

For Grief Is Crowned With Consolation.