My Crown Is In My Heart, Not

Speak Comfortable Words.

Who Buys A Minute's Mirth To Wail A Week? Or Sell Eternity To Get A Toy? For One Grape Who Will The Vine Destroy?

So Doth The Greater Glory Dim The Less: A Substitute Shines Brightly As A King Until A King Be By.

Eternity Was In Our Lips And Eyes.

Poor Desdemona! I Am Glad Thy Father's Dead. Thy Match Was Mortal To Him, And Pure Grief Shore His Old Thread In Twain.