Tis The Times' Plague, When Madmen Lead

Fore God, You Have Here A Goodly Dwelling And A Rich.

Thou Art An Elm, My Husband, I A Vine, Whose Weakness, Married To Thy Stronger State, Makes Me With Thy Strength To Communicate.

Et Tu Brute! (you Too, Brutus!)

Never Durst Poet Touch A Pen To Write Until His Ink Were Temper'd With Love's Sighs.

There Is Plenty Of Time To Sleep In The Grave