No Evil Lost Is Wailed When It

Get Thee Glass Eyes, And Like A Scurvy Politician, Seem To See The Things Thou Dost Not.

The Time Is Out Of Joint.

The Violence Of Either Grief Or Joy, Their Own Enactures With Themselves Destroy.

Love Is Merely A Madness; And, I Tell You, Deserves As Well A Dark House And A Whip As Madmen Do; And The Reason Why They Are Not So Punish'd And Cured Is That The Lunacy Is So Ordinary That The Whippers Are In Love Too.

Scorn, At First, Makes After-love The More.