I Long To Hear The Story Of

Wisely Weigh Our Sorrow With Our Comfort.

Infirm Of Purpose! Give Me The Daggers: The Sleeping And The Dead Are But As Pictures: ‘tis The Eye Of Childhood That Fears A Painted Devil

Being Daily Swallowed By Men's Eyes, They Surfeited With Honey And Began To Loathe The Taste Of Sweetness, Whereof A Little More Than A Little Is By Much Too Much. So, When He Had Occasion To Be Seen, He Was But As The Cuckoo Is In June. Heard, Not Regarded.

I Have No Other But A Woman's Reason: I Think Him So, Because I Think Him So.

Who Is Silvia What Is She, That All Our Swains Commend Her Holy, Fair, And Wise Is She.