Make Not Your Thoughts Your Prisons.

She Speaks Poniards, And Every Word Stabs.

I Stand For Judgment: Answer: Shall I Have It?

Words Are Easy, Like The Wind; Faithful Friends Are Hard To Find.

Would It Not Grieve A Woman To Be Over-mastered By A Piece Of Valiant Dust? To Make An Account Of Her Life To A Clod Of Wayward Marle?

We Are Not Ourselves When Nature, Being Oppressed, Commands The Mind To Suffer With The Body.