Now Is The Winter Of Our Discontent.

Ingratitude Is Monstrous; And For The Multitude To Be Ingrateful Were To Make A Monster Of The Multitude; Of Which We Being Members, Should Bring Ourselves To Be Monstrous Members.

So Holy And So Perfect Is My Love, And I In Such A Poverty Of Grace, That I Shall Think It A Most Plenteous Crop To Glean The Broken Ears After The Man That The Main Harvest Reaps.

What, Can The Devil Speak True?

A Good Heart Is The Sun And The Moon; Or, Rather, The Sun And Not The Moon, For It Shines Bright And Never Changes.

Lovers Ever Run Before The Clock