Well, Isn't Bohemia A Place Where Everyone

I've Seen Death And I Didn't Like It.

The Very Condition Of Woman Is So Subject To Hazard, So Complex, And So Grievous, That To Place Her At One Moment Is But To Displace Her At The Next.

Why Is It That Whenever I Hear Music I Think I’m A Bride?

Love Becomes The Deposit Of The Heart, Analogous In All Degrees To The 'findings' In A Tomb. As In One Will Be Charted The Taken Place Of The Body, The Raiment, The Utensils Necessary To Its Other Life, So In The Heart Of The Lover Will Be Traced, As An Indelible Shadow, That Which He Loves.

The Heart Of The Jealous Knows The Best And Most Satisfying Love, That Of The Other's Bed, Where The Rival Perfects The Lover's Imperfections.