I Will Not Be Sworn But Love

Love Is Too Young To Know What Conscience Is.

Make Not Your Thoughts Your Prisons.

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

The Native Hue Of Resolution Is Sicklied O'er With The Pale Cast Of Thought; And Enterprises Of Great Pitch And Moment, With This Regard, Their Currents Turn Awry, And Lose The Name Of Action.

The Tempter Or The Tempted, Who Sins Most? Ha! Not She: Nor Doth She Tempt: But It Is I That, Lying By The Violet In The Sun, Do As The Carrion Does, Not As The Flower, Corrupt With Virtuous Season.