Why, Look You, I Am Whipp'd And

Hell Is Empty And All The Devils Are Here.

When Rich Villains Have Need Of Poor Ones, Poor Ones May Make What Price They Will

The Gods Are Just, And Of Our Pleasant Vices Make Instruments To Plague Us.

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.

I Loved Ophelia. Forty Thousand Brothers Could Not, With All Their Quantity Of Love, Make Up My Sum.