Words Spoken Can Not Be Recalled So

Can One Desire Too Much Of A Good Thing?

But Shall We Wear These Glories For A Day? Or Shall They Last, And We Rejoice In Them?

That Which In Mean Men We Entitle Patience Is Pale Cold Cowardice In Noble Breasts.

The First Thing We Do, Let's Kill All The Lawyers.

Yet Nor The Lays Of Birds Nor The Sweet Smell Of Different Flowers In Odour And In Hue Could Make Me Any Summer's Story Tell, Or From Their Proud Lap Pluck Them Where They Grew; Nor Did I Wonder At The Lily's White, Nor Praise The Deep Vermilion In The Rose; They Were But Sweet, But Figures Of Delight, Drawn After You, You Pattern Of All Those.