So Are You To My Thoughts As

For 'tis The Sport To Have The Engineer Hoist With His Own Petar; And't Shall Go Hard But I Will Delve One Yard Below Their Mines And Blow Them At The Moon.

Love Moderately; Long Love Doth So; Too Swift Arrives As Tardy As Too Slow.

Beauty Too Rich For Use, For Earth Too Dear.

The Cunning Livery Of Hell.

The Sweets We Wish For, Turn To Loathed Sours, Even In The Moment That We Call Them Ours.