I Have Unclasp'd To Thee The Book

Were Beauty Under Twenty Locks Kept Fast, Yet Love Breaks Through And Picks Them All At Last.

Britain Is A World By Itself, And We Will Nothing Pay For Wearing Our Own Noses.

O, My Offence Is Rank, It Smells To Heaven

By Heaven, I Do Love: And It Hath Taught Me To Rhyme, And To Be Mekancholy.

The Nature Of Bad News Affects The Teller.