No More We Meet In Yonder Bowers

Love Will Find A Way Through Paths Where Wolves Fear To Prey.

Oh! Might I Kiss Those Eyes Of Fire, A Million Scarce Would Quench Desire; Still Would I Steep My Lips In Bliss, And Dwell An Age On Every Kiss; Nor Then My Soul Should Sated Be, Still Would I Kiss And Cling To Thee: Nought Should My Kiss From Thine Dissever, Still Would We Kiss And Kiss For Ever; E'en Though The Numbers Did Exceed The Yellow Harvest's Countless Seed; To Part Would Be A Vain Endeavour: Could I Desist? -ah! Never-never.

Your Thief Looks Exactly Like The Rest, Or Rather Better; 'tis Only At The Bar, And In The Dungeon, That Wise Men Know Your Felon By His Features.

In England The Only Homage Which They Pay To Virtue - Is Hypocrisy.

The Art Of Angling, The Cruelest, The Coldest And The Stupidest Of Pretended Sports.