... I Am At War 'twixt Will

Love's Not Time's Fool, Though Rosy Lips And Cheeks Within His Bending Sickle's Compass Come; Love Alters Not With His Brief Hours And Weeks, But Bears It Out Even To The Edge Of Doom. If This Be Error And Upon Me Prov'd, I Never Writ, Nor No Man Ever Lov'd.

Death Is My Son-in-law, Death Is My Heir.

Fruits That Blossom First Will First Be Ripe.

The Quality Of Mercy Is Not Strained

He That Is Robbed, Not Wanting What Is Stolen, Him Not Know T, And He's Not Robbed At All.