Thy Praise Or Dispraise Is To Me

I Have No Urns, No Dusty Monuments; No Broken Images Of Ancestors, Wanting An Ear, Or Nose; No Forged Tales Of Long Descents, To Boast False Honors From.

Give Me A Look, Give Me A Face, That Makes Simplicity A Grace Robes Loosely Flowing, Hair As Free Such Sweet Neglect More Taketh Me Than All The Adulteries Of Art: They Strike Mine Eyes, But Not My Heart.

We Are Persons Of Quality, I Assure You, And Women Of Fashion, And Come To See And To Be Seen.

All Concord's Born Of Contraries.

For Whose Sake, Henceforth, All His Vows Be Such, As What He Loves May Never Like Too Much.