Like vnto the fowlers, that by their stales draw other birdes into their nets.
Love is everything its cracked up to be.
Striving to sing glad songs, I but attain / Wild discords sadder than Grief’s saddest tune / As if an owl with his harsh screech should strain / To over-gratulate a thrush of June.
We're but the sum of all our terrors until we heart the dove.
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