Tis Fate That Flings The Dice, And

Dreams Are But Interludes, Which Fancy Makes; When Monarch Reason Sleeps, This Mimic Wakes.

A Knock-down Argument; 'tis But A Word And A Blow.

If One Must Be Rejected, One Succeed, Make Him My Lord Within Whose Faithful Breast Is Fixed My Image, And Who Loves Me Best.

For All Have Not The Gift Of Martyrdom.

Love Either Finds Equality Or Makes It.