Heaven Would That She These Gifts Should

Ay, When Fowls Have No Feathers And Fish Have No Fin.

An Habitation Giddy And Unsure Hath He That Buildeth On The Vulgar Heart.

There's Neither Honesty, Manhood, Nor Good Fellowship In Thee.

Women Are As Roses, Whose Fair Flower, Being Once Displayed, Doth Fall That Very Hour.

By The Pricking Of My Thumbs, Something Wicked This Way Comes.