I Have Very Poor And

For Where Is Any Author In The World Teaches Such Beauty As A Woman's Eye?

Talking Isn't Doing. It Is A Kind Of Good Deed To Say Well; And Yet Words Are Not Deeds.

This Act Is An Ancient Tale New Told; And, In The Last Repeating, Troublesome, Being Urged At A Time Unseasonable.

If I Profane With My Unworthiest Hand This Holy Shrine, The Gentle Fine Is This: My Lips, Two Blushing Pilgrims, Ready Stand To Smooth That Rough Touch With A Tender Kiss.

It Is To Be All Made Of Fantasy, All Made Of Passion And All Made Of Wishes, All Adoration, Duty, And Observance, All Humbleness, All Patience And Impatience, All Purity, All Trial, All Observance