Look To Her, Moor, If Thou Has

The Iron Tongue Of Midnight Hath Told Twelve Lovers, To Bed; 'tis Almost Fairy Time. I Fear We Shall Outstep The Coming Morn As Much As We This Night Over-watch'd.

When The Age Is In, The Wit Is Out

The Plants Look Up To Heaven, From Whence They Have Their Nourishment.

Night's Candles Have Burned Out, And Jocund Day Stands Tiptoe On The Misty Mountaintops." Hope Tinged With Melancholy - Like Life.

Doubt Is A Thief That Often Makes Us Fear To Tread Where We Might Have Won.