Anger's My Meat. I Sup Upon Myself,

Is This A Dagger Which I See Before Me, The Handle Toward My Hand?

When Clouds Are Seen Wise Men Put On Their Cloaks; When Great Leaves Fall Then Winter Is At Hand.

O World, How Apt The Poor Are To Be Proud!

All Pity Choked With Custom Of Fell Deeds.

Women Are As Roses, Whose Fair Flower, Being Once Displayed, Doth Fall That Very Hour.