Let's Meet As Little As We Can

Truth Hath A Quiet Breast.

At Christmas I No More Desire A Rose Than Wish A Snow In May's New-fangled Mirth; But Like Of Each Thing That In Season Grows.

What If This Cursed Hand Were Thicker Than Itself With Brother's Blood Is There Not Rain Enough In The Sweet Heaves To Wash It White As Snow?

Then Is Courtesy A Turncoat. But It Is Certain I Am Loved Of All Ladies, Only You Excepted: And I Would I Could Find In My Heart That I Had Not A Hard Heart; For, Truly, I Love None. Beatrice: A Dear Happiness To Women: They Would Else Have Been Troubled With A Pernicious Suitor. I Thank God And My Cold Blood, I Am Of Your Humour For That: I Had Rather Hear My Dog Bark At A Crow Than A Man Swear He Loves Me. -much Ado About Nothing

Fear And Niceness, The Handmaids Of All Women, Or More Truly, Woman Its Pretty Self.