Each Present Joy Or Sorrow Seems The

Highly Fed And Lowly Taught.

Seems," Madam? Nay, It Is; I Know Not "seems." 'tis Not Alone My Inky Cloak, Good Mother, Nor Customary Suits Of Solemn Black, Nor Windy Suspiration Of Forced Breath, No, Nor The Fruitful River In The Eye, Nor The Dejected 'havior Of The Visage, Together With All Forms, Moods, Shapes Of Grief, That Can Denote Me Truly: These Indeed Seem, For They Are Actions That A Man Might Play: But I Have That Within Which Passeth Show; These But The Trappings And The Suits Of Woe.

On Rumor's Tongue Continual Slanders Ride.

Not An Angel Of The Air, Bird Melodious Or Bird Fair, Be Absent Hence!

Yet Who Would Have Thought The Old Man To Have Had So Much Blood In Him? - Lady Macbeth