When Love Begins To Sicken

Tis In Ourselves That We Are Thus Or Thus. Our Bodies Are Our Gardens, To The Which Our Wills Are Gardeners: So That If We Will Plant Nettles, Or Sow Lettuce, Set Hyssop And Weed Up Tine, Supply It With One Gender Of Herbs, Or Distract It With Many, Either To Have It Sterile With Idleness, Or Manured With Industry, Why, The Power And Corrigible Authority Of This Lies In Our Wills.

Love's Not Love When It Is Mingled With Regards That Stand Aloof From Th' Entire Point.

Your Tale, Sir, Would Cure Deafness.

Twas A Clever Quibble. Here, A Garment For It.

Ingratitude Is Monstrous.