Sometimes, Less Is More.

A Cup Of Hot Wine With Not A Drop Of Allaying Tiber In 't.

In Sooth I Know Not Why I Am So Sad. It Wearies Me, You Say It Wearies You; But How I Caught It, Found It, Or Came By It, What Stuff 'tis Made Of, Whereof It Is Born, I Am To Learn.

They Say Best Men Are Molded Out Of Faults, And, For The Most, Become Much More The Better For Being A Little Bad

This Look Of Thine Will Hurl My Soul From Heaven.

When You Depart From Me Sorrow Abides And Happiness Takes His Leave.