The Eyes Are The Window To Your

The Curse Of Marriage That We Can Call These Delicate Creatures Ours And Not Their Appetites!

My Brain More Busy Than The Labouring Spider Weaves Tedious Snares To Trap Mine Enemies.

Unless Hours Were Cups Of Sack, And Minutes Capons, And Clocks The Tongues Of Bawds, And Dials The Signs Of Leaping-houses, And The Blessed Sun Himself A Fair Hot Wench In Flame-colored Taffeta, I See No Reason Why Thou Shouldst Be So Superfluous To Demand The Time Of The Day.

Nay, Do Not Think I Flatter. For What Advancement May I Hope From Thee, That No Revenue Hast But Thy Good Spirits To Feed And Clothe Thee? Why Should The Poor Be Flattered?

There's Daggers In Men's Smiles.