He That Has A House To Put's

So Will I Turn Her Virtue Into Pitch, And Out Of Her Own Goodness Make The Net That Shall Enmesh Them All.

Words Are Grown So False, I Am Loath To Prove Reason With Them.

Kent. Where's The King? Gent. Contending With The Fretful Elements; Bids The Wind Blow The Earth Into The Sea, Or Swell The Curled Waters 'bove The Main, That Things Might Change Or Cease; Tears His White Hair, Which The Impetuous Blasts, With Eyeless Rage, Catch In Their Fury And Make Nothing Of; Strives In His Little World Of Man To Outscorn The To-and-fro-conflicting Wind And Rain. This Night, Wherein The Cub-drawn Bear Would Couch, The Lion And The Belly-pinched Wolf Keep Their Fur Dry, Unbonneted He Runs, And Bids What Will Take All.

I Never Yet Did Hear, That The Bruis'd Heart Was Pierced Through The Ear

Lilies That Fester Smell Far Worse Than Weeds.