Love Is My Sin, And

. . From This Moment The Very Firstlings Of My Heart Shall Be The Firstlings Of My Hand. And Even Now, To Crown My Thoughts With Acts, Be It Thought And Done.

Woe To That Land That's Governed By A Child.

I Hold My Peace, Sir? No; No, I Will Speak As Liberal As The North; Let Heaven And Men And Devils, Let Them All, All, All, Cry Shame Against Me, Yet I'll Speak.

Look What Thy Soul Holds Dear, Imagine It To Lie That Way Thou Goest, Not Whence Thou Com'st. Suppose The Singing Birds Musicians, The Grass Whereon Thou Tread'st The Presence Strewed, The Flowers Fair Ladies, And Thy Steps No More Than A Delight Measure Or A Dance; For Gnarling Sorrow Hath Less Power To Bite The Man That Mocks At It And Sets It Light.

Silence Is The Perfectest Herault Of Joy. I Were But Little Happy If I Could Say How Much.