Stars, Hide Your Fires; Let Not Light

Music, Moody Food Of Us That Trade In Love.

Oh God! That One Might Read The Book Of Fate, And See The Revolution Of The Times Make Mountains Level, And The Continent, Weary Of Solid Firmness, Melt Itself Into The Sea.

I Must To The Barber's, Monsieur, For Methinks I Am Marvellous Hairy About The Face.

Love Is The Greatest Of Dreams, Yet The Worst Of Nightmares.

As For My Wife, I Would You Had Her Spirit In Such Another; The Third O' Th' World Is Yours, Which With A Snaffle You May Pace Easy, But Not Such A Wife.