Love Is A Wonderful, Terrible Thing

I Am A Man More Sinned Against Than Sinning

My Cousin's A Fool, And Thou Art Another.

A Heavy Heart Bears Not A Nimble Tongue.

In Thy Youth Wast As True A Lover, As Ever Sighed Upon A Midnight Pillow

The Language I Have Learnt These Forty Years, My Native English, Now I Must Forgo; And Now My Tongue's Use Is To Me No More Than An Unstringed Viol Or A Harp, Or Like A Cunning Instrument Cased Up Or, Being Open, Put Into His Hands That Knows No Touch To Tune The Harmony.