Keep Up Your Bright Swords, For The

What, No More Ceremony? See, My Women! Against The Blown Rose May They Stop Their Nose That Kneel'd Unto The Buds.

A Heaven On Earth I Have Won By Wooing Thee.

Love Is Your Master, For He Masters You; And He That Is So Yoked By A Fool Methinks Should Not Be Chronicled For Wise.

Who Alone Suffers Suffers Most I' Th' Mind, Leaving Free Things And Happy Shows Behind; But Then The Mind Much Sufferance Doth O'erskip When Grief Hath Mates, And Bearing Fellowship.

The People Are The City.