My Father's Wit, And My Mother's Tongue,

Alas, Their Love May Be Call'd Appetite. No Motion Of The Liver, But The Palate

I Must Have Liberty Withal, As Large A Charter As The Wind, To Blow On Whom I Please, For So Fools Have.

I Know A Lady In Venice Would Have Walked Barefoot To Palestine For A Touch Of His Nether Lip

Four Days Will Quickly Steep Themselves In Nights; Four Nights Will Quickly Dream Away The Time; And Then The Moon, Like To A Silver Bow New Bent In Heaven, Shall Behold The Night Of Our Solemnities.

Away, You Trifler! Love! I Love Thee Not, I Care Not For Thee, Kate: This Is No World To Play With Mammets And To Tilt With Lips: We Must Have Bloody Noses And Cracked Crowns.