They Are But Beggars That Can Count

Tell Me, Daughter Juliet, How Stands Your Dispositions To Be Married" It Is An Honor That I Dream Not Of

Orpheus With His Lute Made Trees, And The Mountain Tops That Freeze, Bow Themselves, When He Did Sing; To His Music, Plants And Flowers Ever Sprung; As Sun And Showers There Had Made A Lasting Spring. Every Thing That Heard Him Play, Even The Billows Of The Sea, Hung Their Heads, And Then Lay By. In Sweet Music Is Such Art, Killing Care And Grief Of Heart Fall Asleep, Or Hearing, Die.

I Understand A Fury In Your Words But Not Your Words.

Wise Men Ne'er Sit And Wail Their Woes, But Presently Prevent The Ways To Wail.

Thou Art Sad; Get Thee A Wife, Get Thee A Wife!