What Is The City But The People?

Sigh No More Ladies, Sigh No More, Men Were Deceivers Ever

The Setting Sun, And The Music At The Close, As The Last Taste Of Sweets, Is Sweetest Last, Writ In Rememberance More Than Long Things Past.

Hate Pollutes The Mind.

But I, That Am Not Shaped For Sportive Tricks, Nor Made To Court An Amorous Looking-glass; I, That Am Rudely Stamped, And Want Love's Majesty To Strut Before A Wanton Ambling Nymph.

They Do Not Love That Do Not Show Their Love.