The Griefs Of Private Men Are Soon

O, Thou Art Fairer Than The Evening Air Clad In The Beauty Of A Thousand Stars.

Above Our Life We Love A Steadfast Friend.

Who Hateth Me But For My Happiness? Or Who Is Honored Now But For His Wealth? Rather Had I, A Jew, Be Hated Thus, Than Pitied In A Christian Poverty.

All Women Are Ambitious Naturallie

Fornication: But That Was In Another Country; And Besides, The Wench Is Dead.