I Have Shot Mine Arrow O'er The

These Violent Delights Have Violent Ends And In Their Triump Die, Like Fire And Powder Which, As They Kiss, Consume

The Peace Of Heaven Is Theirs That Lift Their Swords, In Such A Just And Charitable War.

You Know That Love Will Creep In Service Where It Cannot Go.

Faster Than Spring-time Showers Comes Thought On Thought.

The Art Of Our Necessities Is Strange That Can Make Vile Things Precious.