Love Is The Greatest Of

Reflection Is The Business Of Man; A Sense Of His State Is His First Duty: But Who Remembereth Himself In Joy? Is It Not In Mercy Then That Sorrow Is Allotted Unto Us?

He Is Not Worthy Of The Honey-comb, That Shuns The Hives Because The Bees Have Stings.

The Moon's An Arrant Thief, And Her Pale Fire She Snatches From The Sun.

Is It Possible That Love Should Of A Sudden Take Such A Hold?

For Here, I Hope, Begins Our Lasting Joy.