A Little More Than Kin, And Less

Delivers In Such Apt And Gracious Words That Aged Ears Play Truant At His Tales; And Younger Hearings Are Quite Ravished; So Sweet And Voluble Is His Discourse.

Ah, What A Sign It Is Of Evil Life, Where Death's Approach Is Seen So Terrible!

Why Then, O Brawling Love! O Loving Hate! O Any Thing, Of Nothing First Create! O Heavy Lightness, Serious Vanity, Misshapen Chaos Of Well-seeming Forms, Feather Of Lead, Bright Smoke, Cold Fire, Sick Health, Still-waking Sleep, That Is Not What It Is! This Love Feel I, That Feel No Love In This.

Sound Trumpets! Let Our Bloody Colours Wave! And Either Victory, Or Else A Grave.

Till All Grace Be In One Woman, One Woman Shall Not Come In My Grace.