Thy Wish Was Father, Harry, To That

I Have Unclasp'd To Thee The Book Even Of My Secret Soul.

These Violent Delights Have Violent Ends And In Their Triumph Die, Like Fire And Powder, Which As They Kiss Consume. The Sweetest Honey Is Loathsome In His Own Deliciousness And In The Taste Confounds The Appetite. Therefore Love Moderately; Long Love Doth So; Too Swift Arrives As Tardy As Too Slow.

O, Spirit Of Love, How Quick And Fresh Art Thou!

The Golden Age Is Before Us, Not Behind Us.

He That Loves To Be Flattered Is Worthy O' The Flatterer.