I Can No Longer Live By Thinking.

Why, Then The World ’s Mine Oyster, Which I With Sword Will Open.

Love, Whose Month Is Ever May, Spied A Blossom Passing Fair, Playing In The Wanton Air: Through The Velvet Leaves The Wind, All Unseen Can Passage Find; That The Lover, Sick To Death, Wish'd Himself The Heaven's Breath.

Our Wills And Fates Do So Contrary Run, That Our Devices Still Are Overthrown; Our Thoughts Are Ours, Their Ends None Of Our Own.

And When Love Speaks, The Voice Of All The Gods Makes Heaven Drowsy With The Harmony.

Society Is No Comfort, To One Not Sociable.