I Have Discovered That A Famed Familiarity

Wine It Is The Milk Of Venus, And The Poet's Horse Accounted: Ply It And You All Are Mounted.

Though I Am Young, And Cannot Tell Either What Death Or Love Is Well, Yet I Have Heard They Both Bear Darts, And Both Do Aim At Human Hearts. And Then Again, I Have Been Told Love Wounds With Heat, As Death With Cold; So That I Fear They Do But Bring Extremes To Touch, And Mean One Thing. As In A Ruin We It Call One Thing To Be Blown Up, Or Fall; Or To Our End Like Way May Have By A Flash Of Lightning, Or A Wave; So Love’s Inflamèd Shaft Or Brand May Kill As Soon As Death’s Cold Hand; Except Love’s Fires The Virtue Have To Fight The Frost Out Of The Grave.

The Way To Rise Is To Obey And Please.

No Simple Word That Shall Be Uttered At Our Mirthful Board, Shall Make Us Sad Next Morning; Or Affright The Liberty That We'll Enjoy To-night.

Opinion Is A Light, Vain, Crude, And Imperfect Thing.