This Thing Of Darkness I Acknowledge Mine.

If Music Be The Food Of Love, Play On, Give Me Excess Of It; That Surfeiting, The Appetite May Sicken, And So Die.

Let Me Have War, Say I; It Exceeds Peace As Far As Day Does Night; It's Spritely, Waking, Audible, And Full Of Vent.

Your Cause Of Sorrow Must Not Be Measured By His Worth, For Then It Hath No End.

Let Me, If Not By Birth, Have Lands By Wit; All With Me's Meet That I Can Fashion Fit.

I Have Shot Mine Arrow O'er The House And Hurt My Brother.