We Must Every One Be A Man

Make Me A Willow Cabin At Your Gate, And Call Upon My Soul Within The House; Write Loyal Cantons Of Contemned Love And Sing Them Loud Even In The Dead Of Night.

Affection Faints Not Like A Pale-faced Coward, But Then Woos Best When Most His Choice Is Froward.

We Must Not Stint Our Necessary Actions In The Fear To Cope Malicious Censurers, Which Ever, As Rav'nous Fishes, Do A Vessel Follow That Is New-trimmed, But Benefit No Further Than Vainly Longing.

I'll Make Death Love Me; For I Will Contend Even With His Pestilent Scythe.

I Am Falser Than Vows Made In Wine.