And All This Day An Unaccustomed Spirit

Silence Is The Perfectest Herault Of Joy. I Were But Little Happy If I Could Say How Much.

Fondling,' She Saith, 'since I Have Hemm'd Thee Here Within The Circuit Of This Ivory Pale, I'll Be A Park, And Thou Shalt Be My Deer; Feed Where Thou Wilt, On Mountain Or In Dale: Graze On My Lips, And If Those Hills Be Dry, Stray Lower, Where The Pleasant Fountains Lie.

...too Much Sadness Hath Congealed Your Blood,and Melancholy Is The Nurse Of Frenzy.

Ambition, The Soldier's Virtue.

There Lives Within The Very Flame Of Love A Kind Of Wick Or Snuff That Will Abate It.