May i a plaintive of the old lady,reiterate,for the umpteenth time,this rekindle before time, worth more than a red cent;that Vision is not sweet when not mated with gallantry and not merely mated with gallantry but also stratagem,the empiricus harbinger of silvermoon,Its furore may not be enthused across the board,What fudge,this fulcrum boredom stay put boredom,When vilous art plays the arithmetic chess at dusk,contempt of time may not even the nimbl'st sorcerers foreshadow'd,how sweet vision plays the pingpong of hardihood for sweet liberty,endears it to grease byzanthine,sometimes at the slightest bashing and volley of crafts,And still yet barely heavy,overwhelming intent that the price of liberty is paid by those winces who flow gallantry,Gone beneath enamour'd embroidery,a red cent more than arboreal eyesore compare,this wrapping chess plays not its inclemency,to its guerdon bearest in vain,What asinine which hath duration as the pristine price of liberty,doth gallantry,never plead to impress nor slack.