Your Face Is A Book, Where Men

My Love's More Richer Than My Tongue.

For God's Sake, Let Us Sit Upon The Ground, And Tell Sad Stories Of The Death Of Kings... All Murdered; For Within The Hollow Crown That Rounds The Mortal Temples Of A King, Keeps Death His Court... And With A Little Pin Bores Through His Castle Wall, And Farewell King!

What The Great Ones Do, The Less Will Prattle Of

Too Much Of Water Hast Thou, Poor Ophelia, And Therefore I Forbid My Tears.

I Am Not In The Giving Vein Today.