When Lenity And Cruelty Play For A

Out, You Tallow-face! You Baggage!

Alack, There Lies More Peril In Thine Eye Than Twenty Of Their Swords: Look Thou But Sweet, And I Am Proof Against Their Enmity.

Canst Thou Not Minister To A Mind Diseased, Pluck From The Memory A Rooted Sorrow, Raze Out The Written Troubles Of The Brain

Much Rain Wears The Marble.

Unless Hours Were Cups Of Sack, And Minutes Capons, And Clocks The Tongues Of Bawds, And Dials The Signs Of Leaping-houses, And The Blessed Sun Himself A Fair Hot Wench In Flame-colored Taffeta, I See No Reason Why Thou Shouldst Be So Superfluous To Demand The Time Of The Day.