If Men Could Be Contented

In A False Quarrel There Is No True Valor.

Bait The Hook Well. This Fish Will Bite.

We Know What We Are, But Know Not What We May Be.

If I Profane With My Unworthiest Hand This Holy Shrine, The Gentle Fine Is This: My Lips, Two Blushing Pilgrims, Ready Stand To Smooth That Rough Touch With A Tender Kiss.

Why, What's The Matter, That You Have Such A February Face, So Full Of Frost, Of Storm And Cloudiness?