Love Thrives Not In The Heart That

By Heaven, I Do Love: And It Hath Taught Me To Rhyme, And To Be Mekancholy.

My Heart Is Ever At Your Service.

If The Boy Have Not A Woman's Gift To Rain A Shower Of Commanded Tears, An Onion Will Do Well For Such A Shift.

O Momentary Grace Of Mortal Men, Which We More Hunt For Than The Grace Of God!

The Tartness Of His Face Sours Ripe Grapes.