Women May Fail When There Is No

To Sleep Perchance To Dream

O, But They Say, The Tongues Of Dying Men Enforce Attention, Like Deep Harmony: Where Words Are Scarce, They Are Seldom Spent In Vain: For They Breathe Truth, That Breathe Their Words In Pain. He, That No More Must Say, Is Listened More Than They Whom Youth And Ease Have Taught To Gloze; More Are Men's Ends Marked, Than Their Lives Before: The Setting Sun, And Music At The Close, As The Last Taste Of Sweets, Is Sweetest Last; Writ In Rememberance More Than Things Long Past

Love Laughs At Locksmiths.

Love Is A Wonderful, Terrible Thing

A Wicked Conscience Mouldeth Goblins Swift As Frenzy Thoughts.