There's No Better Sign Of

Few Things Loves Better Than To Abhor Himself.

Sorrow, Like A Heavy Ringing Bell, Once Set On Ringing, With Its Own Weight Goes; Then Little Strength Rings Out The Doleful Knell.

Self-love, My Liege, Is Not So Vile A Sin, As Self-neglecting.

My Love Is As A Fever, Longing Still For That Which Longer Nurseth The Disease, Feeding On That Which Doth Preserve The Ill, Th' Uncertain Sickly Appetite To Please. My Reason, The Physician To My Love, Angry That His Prescriptions Are Not Kept, Hath Left Me, And I Desperate Now Approve Desire Is Death, Which Physic Did Except.

Ingratitude Is Monstrous.