Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be.

“O me, you juggler, you canker-blossom, you thief of love!”

“silence is not a langauge, its a weapon to make your dear one to feel”

“As wicked dew as e'er my mother brushedWith raven's feather from unwholesom fen…”

“Never; he will not:Age cannot wither her, nor custom staleHer infinite variety:…”