Cry Havoc And Let Slip The Dogs

Unless Hours Were Cups Of Sack, And Minutes Capons, And Clocks The Tongues Of Bawds, And Dials The Signs Of Leaping-houses, And The Blessed Sun Himself A Fair Hot Wench In Flame-colored Taffeta, I See No Reason Why Thou Shouldst Be So Superfluous To Demand The Time Of The Day.

Her Blood Is Settled, And Her Joints Are Stiff; Life And These Lips Have Long Been Separated: Death Lies On Her Like An Untimely Frost Upon The Sweetest Flower Of All The Field.

I Am Sir Oracle, And When I Ope My Lips, Let No Dog Bark.

O Wretched State! O Bosom Black As Death!

A Heavier Task Could Not Have Been Impos'd, Than I To Speak My Griefs Unspeakable.