Jigging Veins Of Rhyming Mother

I Am Envy...i Cannot Read And Therefore Wish All Books Burned.

All Places Shall Be Hell That Are Not Heaven.

Virtue Is The Fount Whence Honour Springs.

Come Live With Me And Be My Love, And We Will All The Pleasures Prove, That Valleys, Groves, Hills, And Fields, Woods, Or Steepy Mountain Yields.

Religion! O Diabole! Fie, I Am Asham'd, However That I Seem, To Think A Word Of Such Simple Sound, Of Such Great Matter Should Be Made The Ground.