His Worst Fault Is, He's Given To

Who Has A Book Of All That Monarchs Do, He's More Secure To Keep It Shut Than Shown; For Vice Repeated Is Like The Wand'ring Wind, Blows Dust In Others' Eye, To Spread Itself; And Yet The End Of All Is Bought Thus Dear, The Breath Is Gone, And The Sore Eyes See Clear To Stop The Air Would Hurt Them.

Love Is A Wonderful, Terrible Thing

Men At Sometime Are The Masters Of Their Fate.

This Is The Very Ecstasy Of Love.

People’s Good Deeds We Write In Water. The Evil Deeds Are Etched In Brass.