Lord, I Could Not Endure A Husband

As Flies To Wanton Boys, Are We To The Gods; They Kill Us For Their Sport.

The Poet's Eye, In A Fine Frenzy Rolling, Doth Glance From Heaven To Earth, From Earth To Heaven; And As Imagination Bodies Forth The Forms Of Things Unknown, The Poet's Pen Turns Them To Shape, And Gives To Airy Nothing A Local Habitation And A Name; Such Tricks Hath Strong Imagination.

Can I Go Forward When My Heart Is Here?

Hope Is A Lover's Staff; Walk Hence With That And Manage It Against Despairing Thoughts.

A Peevish Self-willed Harlotry It Is. *she’s A Stubborn Little Brat.*