Do Not Spread The Compost On The

For A Quart Of Ale Is A Dish For A King.

This Look Of Thine Will Hurl My Soul From Heaven.

Good Hamlet, Cast Thy Nighted Colour Off ... Do Not For Ever With Thy Vailed Lids Seek For Thy Noble Father In The Dust.

O Heaven! That One Might Read The Book Of Fate, And See The Revolution Of The Times.

Chain Me With Roaring Bears; Or Shut Me Nightly In A Charnel-house, O'er-covered Quite With Dead Men's Rattling Bones, With Reeky Shanks And Yellow Chapless Skulls; Or Bid Me Go Into A New-made Grave, And Hide Me With A Dead Man In His Shroud; Things That, To Hear Them Told, Have Made Me Tremble; And I Will Do It Without Fear Or Doubt, To Live An Unstain'd Wife Of My Sweet Love.