A lazy frost, a numbness of the mind.
Home is the sacred refuge of our life.
But Shakespeare's magic could not copied be; Within that circle none durst walk but he.
Having mourned your sin, for outward Eden lost, find paradise within.
Pains of love be sweeter far than all other pleasures are.
Beauty, like ice, our footing does betray; Who can tread sure on the smooth, slippery way: Pleased with the surface, we glide swiftly on, And see the dangers that we cannot shun.