Heat Not A Furnace For Your Foe

Smooth Runs The Water Where The Brook Is Deep.

He That Wants Money, Means, And Content Is Without Three Good Friends.

You Cannot Call It Love, For At Your Age The Heyday In The Blood Is Tame

Nature, As It Grows Again Toward Earth, Is Fashioned For The Journey, Dull And Heavy.

Seems," Madam? Nay, It Is; I Know Not "seems." 'tis Not Alone My Inky Cloak, Good Mother, Nor Customary Suits Of Solemn Black, Nor Windy Suspiration Of Forced Breath, No, Nor The Fruitful River In The Eye, Nor The Dejected 'havior Of The Visage, Together With All Forms, Moods, Shapes Of Grief, That Can Denote Me Truly: These Indeed Seem, For They Are Actions That A Man Might Play: But I Have That Within Which Passeth Show; These But The Trappings And The Suits Of Woe.