Anger's My Meat. I Sup Upon Myself,

Love's Heralds Should Be Thoughts, Which Ten Times Faster Glide Than The Sun's Beams Driving Back Shadows Over Low'ring Hills. Therefore Do Nimble-pinioned Doves Draw Love, And Therefore Hath The Wind-swift Cupid Wings.

A Good Heart Is The Sun And The Moon; Or, Rather, The Sun And Not The Moon, For It Shines Bright And Never Changes.

True, I Talk Of Dreams, Which Are The Children Of An Idle Brain, Begot Of Nothing But Vain Fantasy.

Those, That With Haste Will Make A Mighty Fire, Begin It With Weak Straws.

For Mine Own Part, It Was Greek To Me.