Avaunt, You Cullions!

Dost Thou Love Hawking? Thou Hast Hawks Will Soar Above The Morning Lark.

A Peevish Self-willed Harlotry It Is. *she’s A Stubborn Little Brat.*

I Love Thee So, That, Maugre All Thy Pride, Nor Wit Nor Reason Can My Passion Hide. Do Not Extort Thy Reasons From This Clause, For That I Woo, Thou Therefore Hast No Cause But Rather Reason Thus With Reason Fetter, Love Sought Is Good, But Given Unsought Better.

Who Wooed In Haste, And Means To Wed At Leisure.

When Our Actions Do Not, Our Fears Make Us Traitors.