He Wears The Rose Of

Your Cause Of Sorrow Must Not Be Measured By His Worth, For Then It Hath No End.

I Despised My Arrival On This Earth And I Despise My Departure; It Is A Tragedy.

Love Is A Smoke Raised With The Fume Of Sighs; Being Purged, A Fire Sparkling In Lovers' Eyes; Being Vexed, A Sea Nourished With Loving Tears. What Is It Else? A Madness Most Discreet, A Choking Gall, And A Preserving Sweet. *here’s What Love Is: A Smoke Made Out Of Lovers' Sighs. When The Smoke Clears, Love Is A Fire Burning In Your Lover’s Eyes. If You Frustrate Love, You Get An Ocean Made Out Of Lovers' Tears. What Else Is Love? It’s A Wise Form Of Madness. It’s A Sweet Lozenge That You Choke On.*

Few Things Loves Better Than To Abhor Himself.

And, If You Love Me, As I Think You Do, Let's Kiss And Part, For We Have Much To Do