On cold December fragrant chaplets blow, And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow.
Whoe'er he be That tells my faults, I hate him mortally.
Honor and shame from no condition rise. Act well your part: there all the honor lies.
Never was it given to mortal man - To lie so boldly as we women can.
The enormous faith of many made for one.
A brain of feathers, and a heart of lead.