I Durst Not Laugh For Fear Of

How Easy It Is For The Proper-false In Woman's Waxen Hearts To Set Their Forms!

What Win I, If I Gain The Thing I Seek? A Dream, A Breath, A Froth Of Fleeting Joy. Who Buys A Minute's Mirth To Wail A Week? Or Sells Eternity To Get A Toy? For One Sweet Grape Who Will The Vine Destroy? Or What Fond Beggar, But To Touch The Crown, Would With The Sceptre Straight Be Strucken Down?

You Are Strangely Troublesome.

What Have We Here? A Man Or A Fish? Dead Or Alive? A Fish: He Smells Like A Fish; A Very Ancient And Fishlike Smell; A Kind Of Not Of The Newest Poor-john. A Strange Fish!

Fight Valiantly To-day; And Yet I Do Thee Wrong To Mind Thee Of It, For Thou Art Framed Of The Firm Truth Of Valor.