If all the earth were paper white / And all the sea were ink / 'Twere not enough for me to write / As my poor heart doth think.
The tongue, the ambassador of the heart.
Where the mind is past hope, the heart is past shame.
Do you think that any one can move the heart but He that made it?
Whatsoever is in the heart of the sober man, is in the mouth of the drunkard.