Fie, Fie Upon Her! There's Language In

A Woman's Thought Runs Before Her Actions.

Conceit, More Rich In Matter Than In Words, Brags Of His Substance, Not Of Ornament: They Are But Beggars That Can Count Their Worth; But My True Love Is Grown To Such Excess, I Cannot Sum Up Half My Sum Of Wealth.

What A Piece Of Work Is A Man

Instead Of Weeping When A Tragedy Occurs In A Songbird's Life, It Sings Away Its Grief. I Believe We Could Well Follow The Pattern Of Our Feathered Friends.

We Will Meet; And There We May Rehearse Most Obscenely And Courageously.