Stars, Hide Your Fires; Let Not Light

The Ostentation Of Our Love, Which, Left Unshown, Is Often Left Unloved.

Sorrow Breaks Seasons And Reposing Hours, Makes The Night Morning, And The Noontide Night.

Our Purses Shall Be Proud, Our Garments Poor; For 'tis The Mind That Makes The Body Rich

The Quality Of Nothing Hath Not Such Need To Hide Itself

Love Does Not See With The Eyes, But With The Soul.