Death Rock Me Asleep.

I Have Heard It Said There Is An Art Which In Their Piedness Shares With Great Creating Nature.

Never Durst Poet Touch A Pen To Write Until His Ink Were Temper'd With Love's Sighs.

For Here, I Hope, Begins Our Lasting Joy.

The Eagle Suffers Little Birds To Sing.

Women Being The Weaker Vessels, Are Ever Thrust To The Walls.