Women's Weapons, Water-drops.

How Much An Ill Word May Empoison Liking!

Join Not With Grief, Fair Woman, Do Not So, To Make My End Too Sudden.

Yet Do I Fear Thy Nature; It Is Too Full O' The Milk Of Human Kindness To Catch The Nearest Way: Thou Wouldst Be Great; Art Not Without Ambition, But Without The Illness Should Attend It: What Thou Wouldst Highly, That Wouldst Thou Holily; Wouldst Not Play False, And Yet Wouldst Wrongly Win.

All Offences Come From The Heart.

Still Constant Is A Wondrous Excellence.