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CXXXII



Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,

Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain,

Have put on black and loving mourners be,

Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.

And truly not the morning sun of heaven 

Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,

Nor that full star that ushers in the even,

Doth half that glory to the sober west,

As those two mourning eyes become thy face:

O! let it then as well beseem thy heart

To mourn for me since mourning doth thee grace,

And suit thy pity like in every part.

  Then will I swear beauty herself is black,

  And all they foul that thy complexion lack.

 	--William Shakespeare

If you desire to drain to the dregs the fullest cup of scorn and hatred that a fellow human being can pour out for you, let
a young mother hear you call dear baby it.
T. S. Eliot

I am not worried about the deficit. It is big enough to take care of
itself.
Ronald Reagan