Rough Winds Do Shake The Darling Buds

The Sense Of Death Is Most In Apprehension, And The Poor Beetle, That We Tread Upon, In Corporal Sufferance Finds A Pang As Great As When A Giant Dies.

For Never Was A Story Of More Woe Than This Of Juliet And Her Romeo.

The Eyes Are The Window To Your Soul

So Well Thy Words Become Thee As Thy Wounds.

I Love You With So Much Of My Heart That None Is Left To Protest.