A little water clears us of this deed.

My brain more busy than the labouring spider Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies.

I love thee, I love thee with a love that shall not die. Till the sun grows cold and the stars grow old.

Sorrow, like a heavy ringing bell, once set on ringing, with its own weight goes; then little strength rings out the doleful knell.

Well, I will find you twenty lascivious turtles ere one chaste man.

Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts.

Love is familiar. Love is a devil. There is no evil angel but Love." -