Taste Your Legs, Sire: Put Them Into

Lords, I Protest My Soul Is Full Of Woe That Blood Should Sprinkle Me To Make Me Grow. Come, Mourn With Me For What I Do Lament, And Put Sullen Black Incontinent. I'll Make A Voyage To The Holy Land To Wash This Blood Off From My Guilty Hand. March Sadly After. Grace My Mournings Here In Weeping After This Untimely Bier.

Now Would I Give A Thousand Furlongs Of Sea For An Acre Of Barren Ground.

The Wind-shak'd Surge, With High And Monstrous Main, Seems To Cast Water On The Burning Bear, And Quench The Guards Of The Ever-fixed Pole.

Good Company, Good Wine, Good Welcome, Can Make Good People.

And When Love Speaks, The Voice Of All The Gods Makes Heaven Drowsy With The Harmony.