I Will Make Thee Think Thy Swan

Wolves And Bears, They Say, Casting Their Savagery Aside, Have Done Like Offices Of Pity.

I Have Unclasp'd To Thee The Book Even Of My Secret Soul.

I Am That Merry Wanderer Of The Night.

Keep Up Your Bright Swords, For The Dew Will Rust Them.

Ever Note, Lucilius, When Love Begins To Sicken And Decay It Useth An Enforced Ceremony. There Are No Tricks In Plain And Simple Faith; But Hollow Men, Like Horses Hot At Hand, Make Gallant Show And Promise Of Their Mettle; But When They Should Endure The Bloody Spur, They Fall Their Crests, And Like Deceitful Jades Sink In The Trial.