Love Is Merely A Madness.

This Liberty Is All That I Request.

The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose, And On Old Hiems' Thin And Icy Crown An Odorous Chaplet Of Sweet Summer Buds Is, As In Mockery, Set. The Spring, The Summer, The Childing Autumn, Angry Winter, Change Their Wonted Liveries, And The Mazed World, By Their Increase, Now Knows Not Which Is Which.

They That Stand High Have Many Blasts To Shake Them.

There's An Old Saying That Applies To Me: You Can't Lose A Game If You Don't Play The Game. (act 1, Scene 4)

Every Good Servant Does Not All Commands.