The Moon Of Rome, Chaste

Come Not Between The Dragon And His Wrath.

O, Here Will I Set Up My Everlasting Rest And Shake The Yoke Of Inauspicious Stars From The World-wearied Flesh

The Teeming Autumn Big With Rich Increase, Bearing The Wanton Burden Of The Prime Like Widowed Wombs After Their Lords Decease.

The Man That Hath No Music In Himself, Nor Is Not Moved With Concord Of Sweet Sounds, Is Fit For Treasons, Stratagems And Spoils.

Speak Comfortable Words.