All Dark And Comfortless.

To Weep Is To Make Less The Depth Of Grief.

The Big Round Tears Cours'd One Another Down His Innocent Nose, In Piteous Chase.

I Like This Place And Could Willingly Waste My Time In It.

At Christmas I No More Desire A Rose Than Wish A Snow In May's New-fangled Mirth; But Like Of Each Thing That In Season Grows.

She Is A Woman, Therefore To Be Won.