Cursed Be The Hand That

Wishers Were Ever Fools.

For What Is Wedlock Forced But A Hell, An Age Of Discord And Continual Strife? Whereas The Contrary Bringeth Bliss, And Is A Pattern Of Celestial Peace.

Therefore The Moon, The Governess Of Floods, Pale In Her Anger Washes All The Air, That Rheumatic Diseases Do Abound; And Through This Distemperature We See The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose.

Silence Is The Perfectest Herault Of Joy. I Were But Little Happy If I Could Say How Much.

Dissembling Harlot, Thou Art False In All!