No Glass Renders A Man's

Confound These Ancestors... They've Stolen Our Best Ideas!

There Is No Greater Hell Than To Be A Prisoner Of Fear.

Tis No Sin Love's Fruits To Steal; But The Sweet Thefts To Reveal; To Be Taken, To Be Seen, These Have Crimes Accounted Been.

Though I Am Young, And Cannot Tell Either What Death Or Love Is Well, Yet I Have Heard They Both Bear Darts, And Both Do Aim At Human Hearts. And Then Again, I Have Been Told Love Wounds With Heat, As Death With Cold; So That I Fear They Do But Bring Extremes To Touch, And Mean One Thing. As In A Ruin We It Call One Thing To Be Blown Up, Or Fall; Or To Our End Like Way May Have By A Flash Of Lightning, Or A Wave; So Love’s Inflamèd Shaft Or Brand May Kill As Soon As Death’s Cold Hand; Except Love’s Fires The Virtue Have To Fight The Frost Out Of The Grave.

All Discourses But My Own Afflict Me; They Seem Harsh, Impertinent, And Irksome