The Patient Must Minister To Himself

Conscience Is A Blushing, Shamefaced Spirit Than Mutinies In A Man's Bosom; It Fills One Full Of Obstacles.

Love's Not Time's Fool, Though Rosy Lips And Cheeks Within His Bending Sickle's Compass Come; Love Alters Not With His Brief Hours And Weeks, But Bears It Out Even To The Edge Of Doom. If This Be Error And Upon Me Prov'd, I Never Writ, Nor No Man Ever Lov'd.

Like One Who Having Into Truth, By Telling Of It, Made Such A Sinner Of His Memory, To Credit His Own Lie.

Who Is It Can Read A Woman?

O Momentary Grace Of Mortal Men, Which We More Hunt For Than The Grace Of God!