No words can explain the way I'm missing you / Deny this emptiness, this hole that I'm inside / These tears, they tell their own story

Her golden lockes she roundly did uptye In breaded tramels, that no looser heares Did out of order stray about her daintie eares.

Those who have successfully claimed the right to “ancient lights” down the years, understood this in a way today’s development-hungry councils do not.

[T]he State, instead of gaining a large body of useful intelligent men – beings of capacity and amiability, impressed with a sense of their duties, who might be potent auxiliaries in the development of the resources of civilization – is corroded with a class of sciolistical asses, whose brains are as worthless as their hearts are false; […]