Ah, What A Sign It

Press Not A Falling Man Too Far; 'tis Virtue: His Faults Lie Open To The Laws; Let Them, Not You, Correct Him.

At This Hour Lie At My Mercy All Mine Enemies.

I'll Say She Looks As Clear As Morning Roses Newly Washed With Dew.

The Man That Hath No Music In Himself, Nor Is Not Moved With Concord Of Sweet Sounds, Is Fit For Treasons, Stratagems And Spoils.

Give Sorrow Words; The Grief That Does Not Speak Knits Up The O-er Wrought Heart And Bids It Break.