I have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken so plainly.

Had I not been bound to silence I could have provided proof enough of a broken heart, even for you.

Pray, pray be composed, and do not betray what you feel to every body present

Is not poetry the food of love?

Too many cooks spoil the broth

She denied none of it aloud, and agreed to none of it in private.

And pictures of perfection, as you know, make me sick and wicked.