Suspicion Always Haunts The Guilty Mind.

Yet Nor The Lays Of Birds Nor The Sweet Smell Of Different Flowers In Odour And In Hue Could Make Me Any Summer's Story Tell, Or From Their Proud Lap Pluck Them Where They Grew; Nor Did I Wonder At The Lily's White, Nor Praise The Deep Vermilion In The Rose; They Were But Sweet, But Figures Of Delight, Drawn After You, You Pattern Of All Those.

I Am A Man More Sinned Against Than Sinning

The Gallantry Of His Grief Did Put Me Into A Towering Passion.

Let Us Kill All Lawyers

The Fringed Curtains Of Thine Eye Advance, And Say What Thou Seest Yond.