Our Very Eyes Are Sometimes, Like Our

What Is Thy Sentence Then But Speechless Death.

It Is A Basilisk Unto Mine Eye, Kills Me To Look On't.

Few Things Loves Better Than To Abhor Himself.

For Where Thou Art, There Is The World Itself, With Every Several Pleasure In The World, And Where Thou Art Not, Desolation.

Value Dwells Not In Particular Will; It Holds His Estimate And Dignity As Well Wherein 'tis Precious Of Itself As In The Prizer.