Love Is . . . A Madness

If She Lives Till Doomsday, She'll Burn A Week Longer Than The Whole World.

He Is Not Worthy Of The Honey-comb, That Shuns The Hives Because The Bees Have Stings.

The Seeming Truth Which Cunning Times Put On To Entrap The Wisest.

O How Wretched Is That Poor Man That Hangs On Princes Favors! There Is Betwixt That Smile We Would Aspire To, That Sweet Aspect Of Princes, And Their Ruin, More Pangs And Fears Than Wars Or Women Have, And When He Falls, He Falls Like Lucifer, Never To Hope Again.

Lay Not That Flattering Unction To Your Soul, That Not Your Trespass But My Madness Speaks.