Knit Your Hearts With An

The Chameleon Love Can Feed On The Air

For They Are Yet Ear-kissing Arguments.

Yet Nor The Lays Of Birds Nor The Sweet Smell Of Different Flowers In Odour And In Hue Could Make Me Any Summer's Story Tell, Or From Their Proud Lap Pluck Them Where They Grew; Nor Did I Wonder At The Lily's White, Nor Praise The Deep Vermilion In The Rose; They Were But Sweet, But Figures Of Delight, Drawn After You, You Pattern Of All Those.

In Delay There Lies No Plenty.

Foolery, Sir, Does Walk About The Orb Like The Sun; It Shines Everywhere.