Oh, God! I Have An Ill-divining Soul!

Upon His Royal Face There Is No Note How Dread An Army Hath Enrounded Him.

Love Is Your Master, For He Masters You; And He That Is So Yoked By A Fool Methinks Should Not Be Chronicled For Wise.

As Chaste As Is The Bud Ere It Be Blown.

Allow Not Nature More Than Nature Needs.

Light Vanity, Insatiate Cormorant, Consuming Means, Soon Preys Upon Itself.