Well, I Will Find You Twenty Lascivious

Lord, What Fools These Mortals Be!

The Moon Of Rome, Chaste As The Icicle That's Curded By The Frost From Purest Snow.

Cursed Be The Hand That Made These Fatal Holes.

My Thought, Whose Murder Yet Is But Fantastical, Shakes So My Single State Of Man That Function Is Smothered In Surmise, And Nothing Is But What Is Not.

O, Here Will I Set Up My Everlasting Rest And Shake The Yoke Of Inauspicious Stars From The World-wearied Flesh