Nice Customs Curtsy To Great Kings.

To Kill, I Grant, Is Sin's Extremest Gust; But, In Defence, By Mercy, 'tis Most Just.

Hang There Like Fruit, My Soul, Till The Tree Die!

Love`s Reason`s Without Reason

Come What Sorrow Can, It Cannot Countervail The Exchange Of Joy, That One Short Minute Gives Me In Her Sight

One Pain Is Lessened By Another's Anguish.