For Such Things As You,

Unless Hours Were Cups Of Sack, And Minutes Capons, And Clocks The Tongues Of Bawds, And Dials The Signs Of Leaping-houses, And The Blessed Sun Himself A Fair Hot Wench In Flame-colored Taffeta, I See No Reason Why Thou Shouldst Be So Superfluous To Demand The Time Of The Day.

We All Are Men, In Our Own Natures Frail, And Capable Of Our Flesh; Few Are Angels.

There's Daggers In Men's Smiles.

Her Father Lov'd Me; Oft Invited Me; Still Question'd Me The Story Of My Life, From Year To Year, The Battles, Sieges, Fortunes, That I Have Pass'd.

Love Will Not Be Spurred To What It Loathes