Music, Moody Food Of Us

Have You Not Love Enough To Bear With Me, When That Rash Humor Which My Mother Gave Me Makes Me Forgetful.

Teach Not Thy Lip Such Scorn, For It Was Made For Kissing, Lady, Not For Such Contempt.

The Whirligig Of Time Brings In His Revenges.

These Words Are Razors To My Wounded Heart.

Know More Than Other. Work More Than Other. Expect Less Than Other