Barnes Are Blessings.

Nature's Tears Are Reason's Merriment.

Ay, Much Is The Force Of Heaven-bred Poesy.

The Tartness Of His Face Sours Ripe Grapes.

Is This The Generation Of Love? Hot Blood, Hot Thoughts And Hot Deeds? Why, They Are Vipers. Is Love A Generation Of Vipers?

Look What Thy Soul Holds Dear, Imagine It To Lie That Way Thou Goest, Not Whence Thou Com'st. Suppose The Singing Birds Musicians, The Grass Whereon Thou Tread'st The Presence Strewed, The Flowers Fair Ladies, And Thy Steps No More Than A Delight Measure Or A Dance; For Gnarling Sorrow Hath Less Power To Bite The Man That Mocks At It And Sets It Light.