Well, While I Live I'll Fear No

The Sweetest Honey Is Loathsome In His Own Deliciousness, And In The Taste Confounds The Appetite: Therefore Love Moderately— Long Love Doth So.

Thine Eyes I Love, And They, As Pitying Me, Knowing Thy Heart Torment Me With Disdain, Have Put On Black And Loving Mourners Be, Looking With Pretty Ruth Upon My Pain. And Truly Not The Morning Sun Of Heaven Better Becomes The Grey Cheeks Of The East, Nor That Full Star That Ushers In The Even, Doth Half That Glory To The Sober West, As Those Two Mourning Eyes Become Thy Face: O! Let It Then As Well Beseem Thy Heart To Mourn For Me Since Mourning Doth Thee Grace, And Suit Thy Pity Like In Every Part. Then Will I Swear Beauty Herself Is Black, And All They Foul That Thy Complexion Lack

Time Does Not Have The Same Appeal For Every One

An Overflow Of Good Converts To Bad.

All Hoods Make Not Monks.