My Lord, They Say Five Moons Were

The Best Is Yet To Come.

Poor Desdemona! I Am Glad Thy Father's Dead. Thy Match Was Mortal To Him, And Pure Grief Shore His Old Thread In Twain.

Some Falls The Means Are Happier To Rise.

My Only Love Sprung From My Only Hate! Too Early Seen Unknown, And Known Too Late! Prodigious Birth Of Love It Is To Me, That I Must Love A Loathed Enemy.

She's Beautiful, And Therefore To Be Wooed; She Is A Woman, Therefore To Be Won.