Poor Desdemona! I Am Glad Thy Father's

I Almost Die For Food, And Let Me Have It!

A Violet In The Youth Of Primy Nature, Forward, Not Permanent--sweet, Not Lasting; The Perfume And Suppliance Of A Minute; No More.

Many Strokes, Though With A Little Axe, Hew Down And Fell The Hardest-timber'd Oak.

You Common Cry Of Curs! Whose Breath I Hate As Reek O' The Rotten Fens, Whose Loves I Prize As The Dead Carcasses Of Unburied Men That Do Corrupt My Air, I Banish You; And Here Remain With Your Uncertainty!

But, Soft! What Light Through Yonder Window Breaks? It Is The East, And Juliet Is The Sun.