She Speaks Poniards, And Every Word Stabs.

And What Art Thou, Thou Idol Ceremony? What Kind Of God Art Thou, That Suffer'st More Of Mortal Griefs Than Do Thy Worshippers?

Will You Walk Out Of The Air, My Lord? Hamlet Into My Grave.

Golden Lads And Girls All Must As Chimney Sweepers Come To Dust.

He Is Well Paid That Is Well Satisfied.

Thou Weedy Elf-skinned Canker-blossom!