Like vnto the fowlers, that by their stales draw other birdes into their nets.
We're but the sum of all our terrors until we heart the dove.
Love is everything its cracked up to be.
Striving to sing glad songs, I but attain / Wild discords sadder than Grief’s saddest tune / As if an owl with his harsh screech should strain / To over-gratulate a thrush of June.
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