Were All The Letters Sun, I Could

Love Is Begun By Time And Time Qualifies The Spark And Fire Of It.

Arise, Fair Sun, And Kill The Envious Moon, Who Is Already Sick And Pale With Grief That Thou, Her Maid, Art Far More Fair Than She. . . .

There Was Never Yet Fair Woman But She Made Mouths In A Glass.

He That Is Proud Eats Up Himself: Pride Is His Own Glass, His Own Trumpet, His Own Chronicle.

The Brain May Devise Laws For The Blood, But A Hot Temper Leaps O'er A Cold Decree.