Words Are Grown So False, I Am

Thus Is His Cheek The Map Of Days Outworn.

A Thousand Kisses Buys My Heart From Me; And Pay Them At Thy Leisure, One By One.

Here Was A Caesar! When Comes Such Another?

Your Date Is Better In Your Pie And Your Porridge Than In Your Cheek.

Write Till Your Ink Be Dry, And With Your Tears Moist It Again, And Frame Some Feeling Line That May Discover Such Integrity.