Her Passions Are Made Of Nothing But

Dost Thou Love Hawking? Thou Hast Hawks Will Soar Above The Morning Lark.

But Like Of Each Thing That In Season Grows.

But I Will Be, A Bridegroom In My Death, And Run Into't As To A Lover's Bed.

We Must Every One Be A Man Of His Own Fancy.

Of All Knowledge The Wise And Good Seek Most To Know Themselves.