I Will Speak Daggers To Her, But

It Were A Grief So Brief To Part With Thee. Farewell.

Call Me What Instrument You Will, Though You Can Fret Me, You Cannot Play Upon Me.

How Sweet The Moonlight Sleeps Upon This Bank Here We Will Sit, And Let The Sounds Of Music Creep In Our Ears; Soft Stillness, And The Night Become The Touches Of Sweet Harmony

The Poor World Is Almost Six Thousand Years Old, And In All This Time There Was Not Any Man Died In His Own Person, Videlicet, In A Love-cause.

Two Women Placed Together Makes Cold Weather.