Scorn, At First, Makes After-love The More.

Oh God! That One Might Read The Book Of Fate, And See The Revolution Of The Times Make Mountains Level, And The Continent, Weary Of Solid Firmness, Melt Itself Into The Sea.

Look Like The Innocent Flower, But Be The Serpent Under It.

Examine Well Your Blood.

In Time We Hate That Which We Often Fear.

I, Measuring His Affections By My Own, Which Then Most Sought Where Most Might Not Be Found, Being One Too Many By My Weary Self, Pursued My Humor Not Pursuing His, And Gladly Shunned Who Gladly Fled From Me.