All Hoods Make Not Monks.

Oh, How This Spring Of Love Resembleth, The Uncertain Glory Of An April Day, Which Now Shows All Beauty Of The Sun, And By And By A Cloud Takes All Away

Sorrow Breaks Seasons And Reposing Hours, Makes The Night Morning, And The Noontide Night.

Never Durst Poet Touch A Pen To Write Until His Ink Were Temper'd With Love's Sighs.

Learning Is But An Adjunct To Ourself, And Where We Are Our Learning Likewise Is.

The Hind That Would Be Mated By The Lion Must Die For Love.