Earth-treading Stars That Make Dark

All Is Well Ended, If The Suit Be Won.

Our Praises Are Our Wages.

When I Bestride Him, I Soar, I Am A Hawk: He Trots The Air; The Earth Sings When He Touches It; The Basest Horn Of His Hoof Is More Musical Than The Pipe Of Hermes.

Ere I Could Make Thee Open Thy White Hand, And Clap Thyself My Love; Then Didst Thou Utter, I Am Your's For Ever!

I Have Thrust Myself Into This Maze, Haply To Wive And Thrive As Best I May.