Ideas Are The Very Coinage Of Your

My Mistress' Eyes Are Nothing Like The Sun

A Cup Of Hot Wine With Not A Drop Of Allaying Tiber In 't.

They Whose Guilt Within Their Bosom Lies, Imagine Every Eye Beholds Their Blame.

You Are Made Rather To Wonder At The Things You Hear Than To Work Any.

Cursed Be The Hand That Made These Fatal Holes.