Thou Knowest, Winter Tames Man, Woman, And

Will Fortune Never Come With Both Hands Full, But Write Her Fair Words Still In Foulest Terms?

Modest Wisdom Plucks Me From Over-credulous Haste.

Is This A Dagger Which I See Before Me, The Handle Toward My Hand?

Thy Food Is Such As Hath Been Belch'd On By Infected Lungs.

She's Good, Being Gone.