My Salad Days, When I Was Green

Love Does Not See With The Eyes, But With The Soul.

Then Love-devouring Death Do What He Dare.

She Never Told Her Love, But Let Concealment, Like A Worm 'i Th' Bud, Feed On Her Damask Cheek. She Pinned In Thought; And, With A Green And Yellow Melancholy, She Sat Like Patience On A Monument, Smiling At Grief. Was Not This Love Indeed? We Men May Say More, Swear More; But Indeed Our Shows Are More Than Will; For We Still Prove Much In Our Vows But Little In Our Love.

Free From Gross Passion Or Of Mirth Or Anger

Are You Up To Your Destiny?