On Rumor's Tongue Continual Slanders Ride.

The Summer's Flow'r Is To The Summer Sweet, Though To Itself It Only Live And Die' But If That Flow'r With Base Infection Meet, The Basest Weed Outbraves His Dignity: For Sweetest Things Turn Sourest By Their Deeds; Lilies That Fester Smell Far Worse Than Weeds.

Being Holiday, The Beggar's Shop Is Shut.

And Nothing Can We Call Our Own But Death And That Small Model Of The Barren Earth Which Serves As Paste And Cover To Our Bones. For God's Sake, Let Us Sit Upon The Ground And Tell Sad Stories Of The Death Of Kings.

Let No Such Man Be Trusted.

I Loved Ophelia. Forty Thousand Brothers Could Not, With All Their Quantity Of Love, Make Up My Sum.