We Were Not Born To Sue, But

I Will Despair, And Be At Enmity With Cozening Hope.

Give Me A Bowl Of Wine. I Have Not That Alacrity Of Spirit Nor Cheer Of Mind That I Was Wont To Have.

The Truest Poetry Is The Most Feigning.

Fair Is Foul, And Foul Is Fair, Hover Through Fog And Filthy Air.

Many That Are Not Mad Have, Sure, More Lack Of Reason.