Love runs away from those chasing her, and those who run away, she throws herself on his neck.
Faster than spring-time showers comes thought on thought.
I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.
What we determine we often break. Purpose is but the slave to memory.
Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens to the which our wills are gardeners.
O, call back yesterday, bid time return