This Bud Of Love, By Summer's Ripening

Love's Best Habit Is A Soothing Tongue

But Thought's The Slave Of Life, And Life Time's Fool.

To Mingle Friendship Far Is Mingling Bloods.

The Present Eye Praises The Present Object.

Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day? Thou Art More Lovely And More Temperate: Rough Winds Do Shake The Darling Buds Of May, And Summer's Lease Hath All Too Short A Date . . .