You Lack The Season Of All Natures,

It Is The Disease Of Not Listening...... That I Am Troubled With.

Extremity Is The Trier Of Spirits.

Beauty's A Doubtful Good, A Glass, A Flower, Lost, Faded, Broken, Dead Within An Hour; And Beauty, Blemish'd Once, For Ever's Lost, In Spite Of Physic, Painting, Pain, And Cost.

I Drink To The General Joy O’ The Whole Table." Macbeth

O, Beware, My Lord, Of Jealousy; It Is The Green-ey'd Monster, Which Doth Mock The Meat It Feeds On.