If There Is A Good

My Grief Lies All Within, And These External Manners Of Lament Are Merely Shadows To The Unseen Grief That Swells With Silence In The Tortured Soul.

I Am That Merry Wanderer Of The Night.

Poor And Content, Is Rich And Rich Enough; But Riches, Fineless, Is As Poor As Winter, To Him That Ever Fears He Shall Be Poor.

Why, There's A Wench! Come On, And Kiss Me, Kate.

Suspicion Always Haunts The Guilty Mind.