They Lie Deadly That Tell You Have

They Say Best Men Are Molded Out Of Faults, And, For The Most, Become Much More The Better For Being A Little Bad

Women's Weapons, Water-drops.

There's No More Faith In Thee Than In A Stewed Prune.

Juliet Is The East And I Am The Sun.

And Nothing Can We Call Our Own But Death And That Small Model Of The Barren Earth Which Serves As Paste And Cover To Our Bones. For God's Sake, Let Us Sit Upon The Ground And Tell Sad Stories Of The Death Of Kings.