Time Goes On Crutches Till Love Have

One Half Of Me Is Yours, The Other Half Is Yours, Mine Own, I Would Say; But If Mine, Then Yours, And So All Yours.

That Which In Mean Men We Entitle Patience Is Pale Cold Cowardice In Noble Breasts.

But Thou, Contracted To Thine Own Bright Eyes, Feed'st Thy Light's Flame With Self-substantial Fuel, Making A Famine Where Abundance Lies, Thyself Thy Foe, To Thy Sweet Self Too Cruel.

Blood Will Have Blood.

You Have Witchcraft In Your Lips