The Fewer Men, The Greater Share Of

A Very Scurvy Fellow.

It Is A Basilisk Unto Mine Eye, Kills Me To Look On't.

All Love's Pleasure Shall Not Match Its Woe.

Tell Me Where Is Fancy Bred, Or In The Heart, Or In The Head? How Begot, How Nourished? Reply, Reply. It Is Engend'red In The Eyes, With Gazing Fed, And Fancy Dies In The Cradle Where It Lies.

Our Very Eyes Are Sometimes, Like Our Judgments, Blind.