I Would Give All Of My Fame

Now The Good Gods Forbid That Our Renowned Rome, Whose Gratitude Towards Her Deserved Children Is Enrolled In Jove's Own Book, Like An Unnatural Dam Should Now Eat Up Her Own!

O, My Offence Is Rank, It Smells To Heaven

Hamlet: Is This A Prologue, Or The Posy Of A Ring? Ophelia: 'tis Brief, My Lord. Hamlet: As Woman's Love.

Look What Thy Soul Holds Dear, Imagine It To Lie That Way Thou Goest, Not Whence Thou Com'st. Suppose The Singing Birds Musicians, The Grass Whereon Thou Tread'st The Presence Strewed, The Flowers Fair Ladies, And Thy Steps No More Than A Delight Measure Or A Dance; For Gnarling Sorrow Hath Less Power To Bite The Man That Mocks At It And Sets It Light.

Here Come The Lovers, Full Of Joy And Mirth.— Joy, Gentle Friends! Joy And Fresh Days Of Love Accompany Your Hearts!