Your Hearts Are Mighty, Your

How Art Thou Out Of Breath When Thou Hast Breath To Say To Me That Thou Art Out Of Breath?

A Wicked Conscience Mouldeth Goblins Swift As Frenzy Thoughts.

Self-love, My Liege, Is Not So Vile A Sin, As Self-neglecting.

Yet Writers Say, As In The Sweetest Bud The Eating Canter Dwells, So Eating Love Inhabits In The Finest Wits Of All.

What We Determine We Often Break. Purpose Is But The Slave To Memory.