Speak What We Feel, Not

Security Is The Chief Enemy Of Mortals.

Oh, That Way Madness Lies; Let Me Shun That.

O Helena, Goddess, Nymph, Perfect, Divine! To What, My Love, Shall I Compare Thine Eyne? Crystal Is Muddy. O, How Ripe In Show Thy Lips, Those Kissing Cherries, Tempting Grow!

How Much Better Is It To Weep At Joy Than To Joy At Weeping?

Now The Melancholy God Protect Thee, And The Tailor Make Thy Garments Of Changeable Taffeta, For Thy Mind Is Opal.