Dream On, Dream On, Of Bloody Deeds

If I Profane With My Unworthiest Hand This Holy Shrine, The Gentle Fine Is This: My Lips, Two Blushing Pilgrims, Ready Stand To Smooth That Rough Touch With A Tender Kiss.

Costly Thy Habit [dress] As Thy Purse Can Buy; But Not Expressed In Fancy - Rich, Not Gaudy. For The Apparel Oft Proclaims The Man.

Now The Good Gods Forbid That Our Renowned Rome, Whose Gratitude Towards Her Deserved Children Is Enrolled In Jove's Own Book, Like An Unnatural Dam Should Now Eat Up Her Own!

Some Kinds Of Baseness Are Nobly Undergone.

Rough Winds Do Shake The Darling Buds Of May.