It Is Not Vain Glory For A

Call Me What Instrument You Will, Though You Can Fret Me, You Cannot Play Upon Me.

Thou Art An Elm, My Husband, I A Vine, Whose Weakness, Married To Thy Stronger State, Makes Me With Thy Strength To Communicate.

I Always Thought It Was Both Impious And Unnatural That Such Immanity And Bloody Strife Should Reign Among Professors Of One Faith.

I'll Be Supposed Upon A Book, His Face Is The Worst Thing About Him.

Our Thoughts Are Ours, Their Ends None Of Our Own