It Is A Familiar Beast To Man,

Nothing In His Life Became Him Like Leaving It.

Ay Me! For Aught That Ever I Could Read, Could Ever Hear By Tale Or History, The Course Of True Love Never Did Run Smooth.

The Southern Wind Doth Play The Trumpet To His Purposes; And, By His Hollow Whistling In The Leaves, Foretells A Tempest And A Blustering Day.

He That Is Giddy Thinks The World Turns Round.

This Look Of Thine Will Hurl My Soul From Heaven.