What Early Tongue So Sweet Saluteth Me?

The Moon Of Rome, Chaste As The Icicle That's Curded By The Frost From Purest Snow.

Anger's My Meat. I Sup Upon Myself, And So Shall Starve With Feeding.

My Nature Is Subdued To What It Works In, Like The Dyer's Hand.

He Was Met Even Now As Mad As The Vex'd Sea; Singing Aloud; Crown'd With Rank Fumiter And Furrow-weeds, With Bur-docks, Hemlock, Nettles, Cuckoo-flowers, Darnel, And All The Idle Weeds That Grow In Our Sustaining Corn.

Better A Little Chiding Than A Great Deal Of Heartbreak.