The Eye Sees All, But The Mind

When To The Sessions Of Sweet Silent Thought I Summon Up Remembrance Of Things Past, I Sigh The Lack Of Many A Thing I Sought.

Thou Art An Elm, My Husband, I A Vine.

That Strain Again! It Had A Dying Fall: O, It Came O'er My Ear Like The Sweet Sound That Breathes Upon A Bank Of Violets, Stealing And Giving Odour! Enough; No More: 'tis Not So Sweet As It Was Before.

But, Indeed, Words Are Very Rascals, Since Bonds [vows] Disgraced Them." Viola: "thy Reason, Man?" Feste: "troth [truthfully], Sir, I Can Yield You None Without Words, And Words Are Grown So False, I Am Loathe To Prove Reason With Them.

O, Thou Hast Damnable Iteration; And Art, Indeed, Able To Corrupt A Saint.