Tempt Not A Desperate Man

I Wish My Horse Had The Speed Of Your Tongue.

Glory Grows Guilty Of Detested Crimes.

Unsubstantial Death Is Amorous.

There's Little Of The Melancholy Element In Her, My Lord: She Is Never Sad But When She Sleeps; And Not Ever Sad Then; For I Have Heard My Daughter Say, She Hath Often Dreamt Of Unhappiness, And Waked Herself With Laughing.

A Maiden Hath No Tongue--but Thought.