But Most It Is Presumption In Us

Love, Whose Month Is Ever May, Spied A Blossom Passing Fair, Playing In The Wanton Air: Through The Velvet Leaves The Wind, All Unseen Can Passage Find; That The Lover, Sick To Death, Wish'd Himself The Heaven's Breath.

Now Is The Winter Of Our Discontent Made Glorious Summer By This Sun Of York; And All The Clouds That Lour'd Upon Our House In The Deep Bosom Of The Ocean Buried.

There's Rosemary, That's For Remembrance. Pray You, Love, Remember.

Cheerily To Sea; The Signs Of War Advance: No King Of England, If Not King Of France

Who Can Be Patient In Extremes?