O' What May Man Within Him Hide,

Wisdom And Goodness To The Vile Seem Vile; Filths Savour But Themselves.

This Most Excellent Canopy, The Air, Look You, This Brave O-erhanging Firmament, This Majestical Roof Fretted With Golden Fire.

What Sadness Lengthens Romeo’s Hours?

All Gold And Silver Rather Turn To Dirt, An 'tis No Better Reckoned But Of These Who Worship Dirty Gods.

All Offences Come From The Heart.