One Eare It Heard, At

Mordre Wol Out, That Se We Day By Day.

If Gold Rusts, What Then Can Iron Do?

Who Then May Trust The Dice, At Fortune's Throw?

In April The Sweet Showers Fall And Pierce The Drought Of March To The Root, And All The Veins Are Bathed In Liquor Of Such Power As Brings About The Engendering Of The Flower.

We Little Know The Things For Which We Pray.