Talk Not Of Love: Thou Never Knew'st

When A Woman Comes To Her Class, She Does Not Employ Her Time In Making Herself Look More Advantageously What She Really Is, But Endeavours To Be As Much Another Creature As She Possibly Can. Whether This Happens Because They Stay So Long And Attend Their Work So Diligently That They Forget The Faces And Persons, Which They First Sat Down With, Or Whatever It Is, They Seldom Rise From The Toilet The Same Woman They Appeared When They Began To Dress

Talk Not Of Love: Thou Never Knew'st Its Force.

When I Read The Epitaphs Of The Beautiful, Every Inordinate Desire Goes Out; When I Meet With The Grief Of Parents Upon A Tombstone, My Heart Melts With Compassion; When I See The Tomb Of The Parents Themselves, I Consider The Vanity Of Grieving For Those Whom We Must Quickly Follow: When I See Kings Lying By Those Who Deposed Them, When I Consider Rival Wits Placed Side By Side, Or The Holy Men That Divided The World With Their Contests And Disputes, I Reflect With Sorrow And Astonishment On The Little Competitions, Factions, And Debates Of Mankind.

Soon As The Evening Shades Prevail, The Moon Takes Up The Wondrous Tale, And Nightly To The Listening Earth Repeats The Story Of Her Birth.

Love Is A Second Life; It Grows Into The Soul, Warms Every Vein, And Beats In Every Pulse.