Dream In Light Years, Challenge Miles, Walk

My Love's More Richer Than My Tongue.

To Die: - To Sleep: No More; And, By A Sleep To Say We End The Heart-ache And The Thousand Natural Shocks That Flesh Is Heir To, 'tis A Consummation Devoutly To Be Wished.

So All My Best Is Dressing Old Words New.

How Much An Ill Word May Empoison Liking!

When Workmen Strive To Do Better Than Well, They Do Confound Their Skill In Covetousness.