High praise this for me. Thank you. I did not write this...but If I could I would to you.
Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where
they grew. Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor the praise the deep vermillion in the rose. They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Ah, my life content would be for this, would agree, another realm of contention, not to contend, to be contented with this.
I made that up
Moving on: pretty good, Firecrotch.
High praise this for me. Thank you. I did not write this...but If I could I would to you.
Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew. Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor the praise the deep vermillion in the rose. They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Shakspeare