Oh! That You Could Turn

Blessings Of Your Heart, You Brew Good Ale.

If Thou Engrossest All The Griefs Are Thine, Thou Robb'st Me Of A Moiety.

Men Must Endure Their Going Hence, Even As Their Coming Hither. Ripeness Is All.

Arise, Fair Sun, And Kill The Envious Moon, Who Is Already Sick And Pale With Grief That Thou, Her Maid, Art Far More Fair Than She. . . .

All Men's Faces Are True, Whatsome'er Their Hands Are.