Fore God, You Have Here A Goodly

Silence Is Only Commendable In A Neat's Tongue Dried, And A Maid Not Vendible.

When He Shall Die, Take Him And Cut Him Out In Little Stars, And He Will Make The Face Of Heaven So Fine That All The World Will Be In Love With Night And Pay No Worship To The Garish Sun.

Trifles Light As Air Are To The Jealous Confirmations Strong As Proofs Of Holy Writ.

Are You Sure/that We Are Awake? It Seems To Me/that Yet We Sleep, We Dream

O, The Blood More Stirs To Rouse A Lion Than To Start A Hare!