I Am Sure Care's An Enemy To

My Father Compounded With My Mother Under The Dragon's Tail, And My Nativity Was Under Ursa Major, So That It Follows, I Am Roughand Lecherous. Tut, I Should Have Been That I Am, Had The Maidenliest Star In The Firmament Twinkled On My Bastardizing.

Where Art Thou, Muse, That Thou Forget'st So Long / To Speak Of That Which Gives Thee All Thy Might?

The Weary Sun Hath Made A Golden Set And By The Bright Tract Of His Fiery Car Gives Token Of A Goodly Day To-morrow.

You Peasant Swain! You Whoreson Malt-horse Drudge!

They Lie Deadly That Tell You Have Good Faces.