To Kill, I Grant, Is Sin's Extremest

For Though The Camomile, The More It Is Trodden On The Faster It Grows, Yet Youth, The More It Is Wasted, The Sooner It Wears.

I Love You More Than Word Can Wield The Matter, Dearer Than Eye-sight, Space And Liberty

O, Let Him Pass. He Hates Him That Would Upon The Rack Of This Tough World Stretch Him Out Longer.

Thou Weedy Elf-skinned Canker-blossom!

Age, I Do Abhor Thee, Youth, I Do Adore Thee.