No, I Will Be The

Past All Shame, So Past All Truth.

Your Bait Of Falsehood Takes This Carp Of Truth.

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.

Nothing Teems But Hateful Docks, Rough Thistles, Kecksies, Burs, Losing Both Beauty And Utility.

Foul Whisp'rings Are Abroad.