The Truest Poetry Is The Most Feigning.

Dost Thou Think, Because Thou Art Virtuous, There Shall Be No More Cakes And Ale?

Hang There Like Fruit, My Soul, Till The Tree Die!

O, Let Me Kiss That Hand! King Lear: Let Me Wipe It First; It Smells Of Mortality.

Thus Is His Cheek The Map Of Days Outworn.

No, No, I Am But Shadow Of Myself: You Are Deceived, My Substance Is Not Here.