The Path Is Smooth That Leadeth On

Some Cupid Kills With Arrows, Some With Traps.

The Will Is Deaf And Hears No Heedful Friends.

Hung Be The Heavens With Black! Yield, Day, To Night!

Fair Ladies, Masked, Are Roses In Their Bud; Dismasked, The Damask Sweet Commixture Shown, Are Angels Vailing Clouds, Or Roses Blown.

And To Be Merry Best Becomes You; For, Out Of Question, You Were Born In A Merry Hour. Beatrice No, Sure, My Lord, My Mother Cried; But Then There Was A Star Danced, And Under That Was I Born.