There Is Nothing So Confining As The

Now Is The Winter Of Our Discontent Made Glorious Summer By This Sun Of York; And All The Clouds That Lour'd Upon Our House In The Deep Bosom Of The Ocean Buried.

Ay, When Fowls Have No Feathers And Fish Have No Fin.

Exit, Pursued By A Bear.

Bell, Book And Candle Shall Not Drive Me Back, When Gold And Silver Becks Me To Come On.

Oh, She Doth Teach The Torches To Burn Bright!