Lord, What Fools These Mortals Be!

Sin From Thy Lips? O Trespass Sweetly Urged! Give Me My Sin Again.

A Breath Thou Art, Servile To All The Skyey Influences.

Why, Universal Plodding Poisons Up The Nimble Spirits In The Arteries, As Motion And Long-during Action Tires The Sinewy Vigor Of The Traveller.

You Speak An Infinite Deal Of Nothing.

Now I Will Believe That There Are Unicorns.