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The Best Quarrels, In The Heat, Are Cursed By Those That Feel Their Sharpness.

The Breach Of Custom Is Breach Of All.

By-and-by Is Easily Said.

Thus We Play The Fool With The Time And The Spirits Of The Wise Sit In The Clouds And Mock Us.

That Time Of Year Thou Mayst In Me Behold When Yellow Leaves, Or None, Or Few, Do Hang Upon Those Boughs Which Shake Against The Cold, Bare Ruin'd Choirs, Where Late The Sweet Birds Sang. In Me Thou Seest The Twilight Of Such Day, As After Sunset Fadeth In The West, Which By-and-by Black Night Doth Take Away.