Truth Needs No Color; Beauty, No Pencil.

The Deep Of Night Is Crept Upon Our Talk, And Nature Must Obey Necessity.

The Voice Of Parents Is The Voice Of Gods, For To Their Children They Are Heaven's Lieutenants.

Rude Am I In My Speech, And Little Blessed With The Soft Phrase Of Peace.

Sweet Recreation Barred, What Doth Ensue But Moody And Dull Melancholy, Kinsman To Grim And Comfortless Despair.

She Speaks Poniards, And Every Word Stabs.