Waste Not Thy Time In Windy Argument

Retire Me To My Milan, Where Every Third Thought Shall Be My Grave.

My Crown Is In My Heart, Not On My Head; Not Decked With Diamonds And Indian Stones, Nor To Be Seen: My Crown Is Called Content, A Crown It Is That Seldom Kings Enjoy.

The Bashful Virgin's Sidelong Looks Of Love, The Matron's Glance That Would Those Looks Reprove.

The Truest Poetry Is The Most Feigning.

Foul Whisp'rings Are Abroad.