The Hand That Hath Made You Fair

Beauty Is Bought By Judgement Of The Eye.

The Will Is Infinite And The Execution Confin'd, The Desire Is Boundless And The Act A Slave To Limit.

Alas, Poor Yorick! I Knew Him, Horatio: A Fellow Of Infinite Jest, Of Most Excellent Fancy: He Hath Borne Me On His Back A Thousand Times; And Now, How Abhorred In My Imagination It Is! My Gorge Rims At It. Here Hung Those Lips That I Have Kissed I Know Not How Oft. Where Be Your Gibes Now? Your Gambols? Your Songs? Your Flashes Of Merriment, That Were Wont To Set The Table On A Roar? Not One Now, To Mock Your Own Grinning? Quite Chap-fallen?

I Have A Soul Of Lead So Stakes Me To The Ground I Cannot Move.

Why What A Fool Was I To This Drunken Monster For A God. - Caliban