Alas, How Love Can Trifle With Itself!

A Tardiness In Nature, Which Often Leaves The History Unspoke, That It Intends To Do.

Thine Eyes I Love, And They As Pitying Me, Knowing Thy Heart Torment Me With Disdain, Have Put On Black, And Loving Mourners Be, Looking With Pretty Ruth Upon My Pain.

Talking Isn't Doing. It Is A Kind Of Good Deed To Say Well; And Yet Words Are Not Deeds.

Hot Lavender, Mints, Savory, Marjoram; The Marigold, That Goes To Bed Wi' The Sun, And With Him Rise Weeping.

Reason Thus With Life: If I Do Lose Thee, I Do Lose A Thing That None But Fools Would Keep.