We Will All Laugh At Gilded Butterflies.

I Have Heard It Said There Is An Art Which In Their Piedness Shares With Great Creating Nature.

Leave Us To Our Free Election.

Either To Die The Death Or To Abjure For Ever The Society Of Men. Therefore, Fair Hermia, Question Your Desires; Know Of Your Youth, Examine Well Your Blood, Whether, If You Yield Not To Your Father's Choice, You Can Endure The Livery Of A Nun, For Aye To Be In Shady Cloister Mew'd, To Live A Barren Sister All Your Life, Chanting Faint Hymns To The Cold Fruitless Moon. Thrice-blessed They That Master So Their Blood, To Undergo Such Maiden Pilgrimage; But Earthlier Happy Is The Rose Distill'd, Than That Which Withering On The Virgin Thorn Grows, Lives And Dies In Single Blessedness.

Small To Greater Matters Must Give Way.

Lay On, Mcduff, And Be Damned He Who First Cries, 'hold, Enough!