T'is True: There's Magic In The Web

Fill All Thy Bones With Aches.

This Is A Gift That I Have, Simple, Simple; A Foolish Extravagant Spirit Full Of Forms, Figures, Shapes, Objects, Ideas, Apprehensions, Motions, Revolutions; These Are Begot In The Ventricle Of Memory, Nourished In The Womb Of Pia Mater, And Delivered Upon The Mellowing Of Occasion.

I’ll Look To Like, If Looking Liking Move; But No More Deep Will I Endart Mine Eye Than Your Consent Gives Strength To Make It Fly.

O You Beast! I'll So Maul You And Your Toasting-iron, That You Shall Think The Devil Is Come From Hell.

Blest Are Those Whose Blood And Judgment Are So Well Commingled, That They Are Not A Pipe For Fortune's Finger To Sound What Stop She Please.