Being Holiday, The Beggar's Shop Is Shut.

When He Shall Die, Take Him And Cut Him Out In Little Stars, And He Will Make The Face Of Heaven So Fine That All The World Will Be In Love With Night And Pay No Worship To The Garish Sun.

Love Is Your Master, For He Masters You; And He That Is So Yoked By A Fool Methinks Should Not Be Chronicled For Wise.

O Most Delicate Fiend! Who Is't Can Read A Woman? Is There More?

The Peace Of Heaven Is Theirs That Lift Their Swords, In Such A Just And Charitable War.

When Words Are Scarce They Are Seldom Spent In Vain.