And deemest thou as those who pore, / With aged eyes, short way before? / Think'st Beauty vanished from the coast / Of matter, and thy darling lost?

How about, all you care about are man hos that plow, plant, reject and abandon that which they have helped create by encouraging women to murder the babies?

To her surprise, the grass was slick with dew, its texture unusually luxuriant beneath her hands as she spread her skirts to cover her ankles. It was springy and supple, the rich deep green of springtime. “Why do you frown, acushla?”

And gan recomfort her in her rude wyse, / With womanish compassion of her plaint, / Wiping the teares from her suffused eyes […]