Seduce my mind
and you can have my body,
but find my soul
and I'm yours forever.
Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things
To yield with a grace to reason
And bow and accept at the end
Of a love or a season.
"My Love in her attire..."
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
- Macbeth, 5.5.19-28
Little is the number
that think with their own mind
and feel with their own heart.