There Is Throats To Be Cut, And

O, Let My Books Be Then The Eloquence And Dumb Presages Of My Speaking Breast.

What's Brave, What's Noble, Let's Do It After The Roman Fashion.

They May Seize On The White Wonder Of Dear Juliet's Hand And Steal Immortal Blessing From Her Lips, Who, Even In Pure And Vestal Modesty, Still Blush, As Thinking Their Own Kisses Sin.

Knowing I Lov'd My Books, He Furnish'd Me From Mine Own Library With Volumes That I Prize Above My Dukedom.

The Eyes Are The Window To Your Soul