His Heart As Far From

The Fringed Curtains Of Thine Eye Advance, And Say What Thou Seest Yond.

How Many Things By Season Seasoned Are To Their Right Praise And True Perfection!

The Native Hue Of Resolution Is Sicklied O'er With The Pale Cast Of Thought; And Enterprises Of Great Pitch And Moment, With This Regard, Their Currents Turn Awry, And Lose The Name Of Action.

Take No Repulse, Whatever She Doth Say; For 'get You Gone,' She Doth Not Mean 'away.' Flatter And Praise, Commend, Extol Their Graces; Though Ne'er So Black, Say They Have Angels' Faces

Hot Lavender, Mints, Savory, Marjoram; The Marigold, That Goes To Bed Wi' The Sun, And With Him Rise Weeping.