An Overflow Of Good Converts To Bad.

Blessings Of Your Heart, You Brew Good Ale.

Tis A Blushing Shame-faced Spirit That Mutinies In A Man's Bosom. It Fills A Man Full Of Obstacles. It Made Me Once Restore A Purse Of Gold That (by Chance) I Found. It Beggars Any Man That Keeps It.

The Blood Weeps From My Heart When I Do Shape, In Forms Imaginary, Th' Unguided Days And Rotten Times That You Shall Look Upon When I Am Sleeping With My Ancestors.

O Teach Me How I Should Forget To Think (1.1.224)

Mirth Cannot Move A Soul In Agony.