What Our Contempts Do Often Hurl From

If The Skin Were Parchment And The Blows You Gave Were Ink, Your Own Handwriting Would Tell You What I Think.

Lechery, Lechery; Still, Wars And Lechery: Nothing Else Holds Fashion.

It Is The Very Error Of The Moon; She Comes More Nearer Earth Than She Was Wont, And Makes Men Mad.

Ay, In The Catalogue Ye Go For Men; As Hounds, And Greyhounds, Mongrels, Spaniels, Curs, Shoughs, Water-rugs, And Demi-wolves, Are 'clept All By The Name Of Dogs: The Valued File Distinguishes The Swift, The Slow, The Subtle, The Housekeeper, The Hunter, Every One According To The Gift Which Bounteous Nature Hath In Him Closed.

Read O'er This And After, This, And Then To Breakfast With What Appetite You Have.