The Arms Are Fair, When The Intent

For To Define True Madness, What Is't But To Be Nothing Else But Mad?

I Will Instruct My Sorrows To Be Proud; For Grief Is Proud, And Makes His Owner Stoop.

Ten Masts Make Not The Altitude Which Thou Hast Perpendicularly Fell. Thy Life's A Miracle.

My Dear, Dear Lord, The Purest Treasure Mortal Times Afford Is Spotless Reputation; That Away Men Are But Gilded Loan Or Painted Clay... Mine Honor Is My Life; Both Grow In One; Take Honor From Me, And My Life Is Done.

Is It Not Strange That Desire Should So Many Years Outlive Performance?