The Soul Of This Man Is His

I Wish You All The Joy That You Can Wish.

Truth Is Truth To The End Of Reckoning.

Poor Desdemona! I Am Glad Thy Father's Dead. Thy Match Was Mortal To Him, And Pure Grief Shore His Old Thread In Twain.

When The Sun Shines Let Foolish Gnats Make Sport, But Creep In Crannies When He Hides His Beams.

Some There Be That Shadows Kiss; Such Have But A Shadow's Bliss.