More Of Your Conversation Would Infect My

Nothing Can Seem Foul To Those Who Win.

How Now, Wit! Whither Wander You?

I Can Again Thy Former Light Restore, Should I Repent Me: But Once Put Out Thy Light, Thou Cunning'st Pattern Of Excelling Nature, I Know Not Where Is That Promethean Heat That Can Thy Light Relume.

He That Commends Me To Mine Own Content Commends Me To The Thing I Cannot Get.

Love Hath Made Thee A Tame Snake