For All Have Not The

But Love's A Malady Without A Cure.

Present Joys Are More To Flesh And Blood Than A Dull Prospect Of A Distant Good.

They Think Too Little Who Talk Too Much.

Chaucer Followed Nature Everywhere, But Was Never So Bold To Go Beyond Her.

My Heart's So Full Of Joy, That I Shall Do Some Wild Extravagance Of Love In Public; And The Foolish World, Which Knows Not Tenderness, Will Think Me Mad.