Love Is A Smoke Made With The

In Thy Youth Wast As True A Lover, As Ever Sighed Upon A Midnight Pillow

Thy Food Is Such As Hath Been Belch'd On By Infected Lungs.

As Merry As The Day Is Long.

All The World's A Stage, And All The Men And Women Mearly Players.

You Are Yoked With A Lamb, That Carries Anger As The Flint Bears Fire; Who, Much Enforced, Shows A Hasty Spank, And Straight Is Cold Again.