The Rarer Action Is In Virtue Than

That's A Valiant Flea That Dares Eat His Breakfast On The Lip Of A Lion.

Lords, I Protest My Soul Is Full Of Woe That Blood Should Sprinkle Me To Make Me Grow. Come, Mourn With Me For What I Do Lament, And Put Sullen Black Incontinent. I'll Make A Voyage To The Holy Land To Wash This Blood Off From My Guilty Hand. March Sadly After. Grace My Mournings Here In Weeping After This Untimely Bier.

You Know That I Do Fawn On Men, And Hug Them Hard, And After Scandal Them.

The Instruments Of Darkness Tell Us Truths.

The Native Hue Of Resolution Is Sicklied O'er With The Pale Cast Of Thought; And Enterprises Of Great Pitch And Moment, With This Regard, Their Currents Turn Awry, And Lose The Name Of Action.