The Quality Of Mercy Is Not Strained

We All Are Men, In Our Own Natures Frail, And Capable Of Our Flesh; Few Are Angels.

I Rather Would Entreat Thy Company; To See The Wonders Of The World Abroad, Than, Living Dully Sluggardized At Home, Wear Out Thy Youth With Shapeless Idleness.

When To The Sessions Of Sweet Silent Thought I Summon Up Remembrance Of Things Past, I Sigh The Lack Of Many A Thing I Sought.

You Cram These Words Into Mine Ears Against The Stomach Of My Sense.

I Never Yet Did Hear, That The Bruis'd Heart Was Pierced Through The Ear