I Pray Thee Cease Thy

Love Is Merely A Madness.

Of All Base Passions, Fear Is The Most Accursed.

What's His Offense? Groping For Trout In A Peculiar River.

I Pray You, In Your Letters, When You Shall These Unlucky Deeds Relate, Speak Of Me As I Am; Nothing Extenuate, Nor Set Down Aught In Malice. Then Must You Speak Of One That Loved Not Wisely But Too Well; Of One Not Easily Jealous, But Being Wrought, Perplexed In The Extreme. . .

Beggar That I Am, I Am Even Poor In Thanks