Fair Is Foul, And Foul Is Fair,

Small To Greater Matters Must Give Way.

Thrift, Thrift, Horatio! The Funeral Bak'd Meats Did Coldly Furnish Forth The Marriage Tables.

Thy Tongue Makes Welsh As Sweet As Ditties Highly Penn'd, Sung By A Fair Queen In A Summer's Bower, With Ravishing Division, To Her Lute.

Hope Is A Lover's Staff; Walk Hence With That And Manage It Against Despairing Thoughts.

What Freezings I Have Felt, What Dark Days Seen, What Old December's Bareness Everywhere!