This Is The Short And The Long

I Am Not Mad; I Would To Heaven I Were! For Then, 'tis Like I Should Forget Myself; O, If I Could, What Grief Should I Forget!

Thy Words, I Grant Are Bigger, For I Wear Not, My Dagger In My Mouth.

Things Sweet To Taste Prove In Digestion Sour.

Whatever Praises Itself But In The Deed, Devours The Deed In The Praise.

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