A Golden Mind Stoops Not To Shows

I Wish You Well And So I Take My Leave, I Pray You Know Me When We Meet Again.

This Is The Very Ecstasy Of Love, Whose Violent Property Ordoes Itself And Leads The Will To Desperate Undertakings.

But Love That Comes Too Late, Like A Remorseful Pardon Slowly Carried, To The Great Sender Turns A Sour Offense, Crying, 'that's Good That's Gone.

Oh, Flatter Me; For Love Delights In Praises.

Brevity Is The Soul Of Wit.