The Truest Poetry Is The

To Be Merry Best Becomes You; For, Out Of Question, You Were Born In A Merry Hour.

See How She Leans Her Cheek Upon Her Hand. O, That I Were A Glove Upon That Hand That I Might Touch That Cheek!

You Are An Alchemist; Make Gold Of That.

Besides, Our Nearness To The King In Love Is Near The Hate Of Those Love Not The King.

O Madam, My Old Heart Is Cracked, It's Cracked!