My Lord, They Say Five Moons Were

Now, My Co-mates And Brothers In Exile, Hath Not Old Custom Made This Life More Sweet Than That Of Painted Pomp? Are Not These Woods More Free From Peril Than The Envious Court?

It Is A Wise Father That Knows His Own Child.

Abandon All Remorse; On Horror's Head Horrors Accumulate.

More Of Your Conversation Would Infect My Brain.

Lawn As White As Driven Snow; Cyprus Black As E'er Was Crow; Gloves As Sweet As Damask Roses.