So Well Thy Words Become

Make Me A Willow Cabin At Your Gate, And Call Upon My Soul Within The House; Write Loyal Cantons Of Contemned Love And Sing Them Loud Even In The Dead Of Night.

She's Gone. I Am Abused, And My Relief Must Be To Loathe Her.

The Sight Of Lovers Feedeth Those In Love.

The Object Of Art Is To Give Life A Shape.

Why, All Delights Are Vain, But That Most Vain Which, With Pain Purchased, Doth Inherit Pain: As, Painfully To Pore Upon A Book, To Seek The Light Of Truth, Which Truth The While Doth Falsely Blind The Eyesight Of His Look.