I Love Thee; None But

Sycorax Has Grown Into A Hoop

The Smallest Worm Will Turn Being Trodden On, And Doves Will Peck In Safeguard Of Their Brood.

I Will Go Wash; And When My Face Is Fair, You Shall Perceive Whether I Blush Or No.

Not All The Water In The Rough Rude Sea Can Wash The Balm From An Anointed King.

The Web Of Our Life Is Of A Mingled Yarn, Good And Ill Together.