The Breach Of Custom Is Breach Of

Rough Winds Do Shake The Darling Buds Of May.

What We Determine We Often Break. Purpose Is But The Slave To Memory.

A Hit, A Very Palpable Hit.

Ay, In The Catalogue Ye Go For Men; As Hounds, And Greyhounds, Mongrels, Spaniels, Curs, Shoughs, Water-rugs, And Demi-wolves, Are 'clept All By The Name Of Dogs: The Valued File Distinguishes The Swift, The Slow, The Subtle, The Housekeeper, The Hunter, Every One According To The Gift Which Bounteous Nature Hath In Him Closed.

What, All So Soon Asleep! I Wish Mine Eyes Would, With Themselves, Shut Up My Thoughts.