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As an unperfect actor upon the stage Who with much fear is put besides his part Or some fierce thing, replete with too much rage Whose strengths abundance weakens his own heart So I, for fear of trust, forget to say The perfect ceremony of love's rite And in mine own love's strength seem to decay O'ercharged with burthen of my own love's might o, let my books be then the eloquence And dumb presagers of my speaking breast Who plead for love, and look for recompense More than that tongue that more hath express'd. O, learn to read what silent love hath writ To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. ↗
Kayso, Foo finally came home and I jumped into his arms and sort of rode him to the ground with a massive tongue kiss so deep that I could taste the burned cinnamon toast of his soul, but then I slapped him, so he didn't think I was a slut. (Shut up, he had wood.) --Being the Journal of Abby Normal ↗
