Do Not Speak Like A Death's-head, Do

O, She's Warm! If This Be Magic, Let It Be An Art Lawful As Eating.

If After Every Tempest Come Such Calms, May The Winds Blow Till They Have Waken'd Death!

Nice Customs Curtsy To Great Kings.

Your Lordship, Though Not Clean Past Your Youth, Have Yet Some Smack Of Age In You, Some Relish Of The Saltiness Of Time.

The Lunatic, The Lover, And The Poet, Are Of Imagination All Compact.