There Is A History In All Men's

How Oft The Sight Of Means To Do Ill Deeds Makes Ill Deeds Done!

Tell Me Where Is Fancy Bred, Or In The Heart, Or In The Head? How Begot, How Nourished? Reply, Reply. It Is Engend'red In The Eyes, With Gazing Fed, And Fancy Dies In The Cradle Where It Lies.

Sweets Grown Common Lose Their Dear Delight.

You Are Not Worth Another Word, Else I'd Call You Knave.

As Flies To Wanton Boys, Are We To The Gods; They Kill Us For Their Sport.