The Eyes Are The Window To Your

Light And Lust Are Deadly Enemies.

Thou Canst Not Speak Of What Thou Dost Not Feel.

The Gates Of Monarchs Are Arched So High That Giants May Jet Through And Keep Their Impious Turbans On Without Good Morrow To The Sun.

I'll Break My Staff, Bury It Certain Fathoms In The Earth, And Deeper Than Did Ever Plummet Sound, I'll Drown My Book!

It Is A Wise Father That Knows His Own Child.