Too Much To Know Is To Know

The Best Quarrels, In The Heat, Are Cursed By Those That Feel Their Sharpness.

O, Let Me Kiss That Hand! King Lear: Let Me Wipe It First; It Smells Of Mortality.

O War! Thou Son Of Hell!

Yet Do I Fear Thy Nature; It Is Too Full O' The Milk Of Human Kindness.

Were Beauty Under Twenty Locks Kept Fast, Yet Love Breaks Through And Picks Them All At Last.