... I Am At War 'twixt Will

When I Have Plucked The Rose, I Cannot Give It Vital Growth Again, It Needs Must Wither. I'll Smell It On The Tree.

Sweetest Nut Hath Sourest Rind.

Thus Sometimes Hath The Brightest Day A Cloud; And After Summer Evermore Succeeds Barren Winter, With His Wrathful Nipping Cold: So Cares And Joys Abound, As Seasons Fleet.

I Love Thee; None But Thee, And Thou Deservest It

For In My Youth I Never Did Apply Hot And Rebellious Liquors In My Blood.