In Sweet Music Is Such Art: Killing

The Summer's Flow'r Is To The Summer Sweet, Though To Itself It Only Live And Die' But If That Flow'r With Base Infection Meet, The Basest Weed Outbraves His Dignity: For Sweetest Things Turn Sourest By Their Deeds; Lilies That Fester Smell Far Worse Than Weeds.

Time Goes On Crutches Till Love Have All His Rites.

But There Is No Such Man; For, Brother, Men Can Counsel And Speak Comfort To That Grief Which They Themselves Not Feel; But, Tasting It, Their Counsel Turns To Passion, Which Before Would Give Preceptial Medicine To Rage, Fetter Strong Madness In A Silken Thread, Charm Ache With Air And Agony With Words.

Virtue Is Bold, And Goodness Never Fearful.

It Is The Disease Of Not Listening...... That I Am Troubled With.