Misery Makes Sport To Mock Itself.

Their Savage Eyes Turned To A Modest Gaze By The Sweet Power Of Music.

A Sentence Is But A Cheveril Glove To A Good Wit; How Quickly The Wrong Side May Be Turned Outward!

No Deeper Wrinkles Yet? Hath Sorrow Struck So Many Blows Upon This Face Of Mine And Made No Deeper Wounds?

What, No More Ceremony? See, My Women! Against The Blown Rose May They Stop Their Nose That Kneel'd Unto The Buds.

Adversity Makes Strange Bedfellows.