Thank Me No Thankings, Nor Proud Me

Have Not Saints Lips, And Holy Palmers Too Ay, Pilgrim, Lips That They Must Use In Prayer.

There's No Better Sign Of A Brave Mind Than A Hard Hand.

O, Spirit Of Love, How Quick And Fresh Art Thou!

Thus Is His Cheek The Map Of Days Outworn.

Too Much Of Water Hast Thou, Poor Ophelia, And Therefore I Forbid My Tears: But Yet It Is Our Trick; Nature Her Custom Holds, Let Shame Say What It Will: When These Are Gone, The Woman Will Be Out. — Adieu, My Lord! I Have A Speech Of Fire, That Fain Would Blaze, But That This Folly Drowns It.