Guiltiness Will Speak, Though Tongues Were Out

A Woman Moved Is Like A Fountain Troubled, Muddy, Ill-seeming, Thick, Bereft Of Beauty.

The Evil That Men Do Lives After Them; The Good Is Oft Interred With Their Bones.

This Bud Of Love, By Summer's Ripening Breath, May Prove A Beauteous Flower When Next We Meet

I'll Have No Husband, If You Be Not He.

All The World's A Stage.