The Weakest Kind Of Fruit Drops Earliest

The Gates Of Monarchs Are Arched So High That Giants May Jet Through And Keep Their Impious Turbans On Without Good Morrow To The Sun.

We Bring Forth Weeds When Our Quick Minds Lie Still.

That Strain Again! It Had A Dying Fall: O, It Came O'er My Ear Like The Sweet Sound That Breathes Upon A Bank Of Violets, Stealing And Giving Odour! Enough; No More: 'tis Not So Sweet As It Was Before.

There Was Never Yet Fair Woman But She Made Mouths In A Glass.

Haply A Woman's Voice May Do Some Good When Articles Too Nicely Urged Be Stood On.