Be Not Thy Tongue Thy Own Shame's

Too Much Of Water Hast Thou, Poor Ophelia, And Therefore I Forbid My Tears.

Direct Not Him Whose Way Himself Will Choose; 'tis Breath Not Lack'st, And That Breath Wilt Thou Lose.

I Long To Hear The Story Of Your Life, Which Must Take The Ear Strangely.

Love Is A Smoke Rais'd With The Fume Of Sighs; Being Purg'd, A Fire Sparkling In Lovers' Eyes; Being Vex'd, A Sea Nourish'd With Lovers' Tears; What Is It Else? A Madness Most Discreet, A Choking Gall, And A Preserving Sweet.

Merciful Heaven, Thou Rather With Thy Sharp And Sulphurous Bolt Splits The Unwedgeable And Gnarled Oak Than The Soft Myrtle; But Man, Proud Man, Dressed In A Little Brief Authority, Most Ignorant Of What He's Most Assured His Glassy Essence--like An Angry Ape Plays Such Fantastic Tricks Before High Heaven As Makes The Angels Weep; Who, With Our Spleens, Would All Themselves Laugh Mortal.