Time Does Not Have The Same Appeal

The Lily I Condemned For Thy Hand, And Buds Of Marjoram Had Stol'n Thy Hair: The Roses Fearfully On Thorns Did Stand, One Blushing Shame, Another White Despair; A Third, Nor Red Nor White, Had Stol'n Of Both And To His Robbery Had Annex'd Thy Breath; But, For His Theft, In Pride Of All His Growth A Vengeful Canker Eat Him Up To Death. More Flowers I Noted, Yet I None Could See But Sweet Or Colour It Had Stol'n From Thee.

Men Are April When They Woo, December When They Wed.

Why, Then The World ’s Mine Oyster, Which I With Sword Will Open.

The Silence Often Of Pure Innocence Persuades When Speaking Fails.

Frailty, Thy Name Is Woman!