Where Hateful Death Put On His Ugliest

He Was Too Good To Be Where Ill Men Were, And Was The Best Of All Amongst The Rar'st Of Good Ones- Sitting Sadly Hearing Us Praise Our Loves Of Italy For Beauty That Made Barren The Swell'd Boast Of Him That Best Could Speak; For Feature, Laming The Shrine Of Venus Or Straight-pight Minerva, Postures Beyond Brief Nature; For Condition, A Shop Of All The Qualities That Man Loves Woman For; Besides That Hook Of Wiving, Fairness Which Strikes The Eye- Cymbeline.

Dirty Days Hath September April June And November From January Up To May The Rain It Raineth Every Day All The Rest Have Thirty-one Without A Blessed Gleam Of Sun And If Any Of Them Had Two-and-thirty They'd Be Just As Wet And Twice As Dirty." "april Hath Put A Spirit Of Youth In Everything.

The Lunatic, The Lover, And The Poet, Are Of Imagination All Compact.

So Shaken As We Are, So Wan With Care, Find We A Time For Frighted Peace To Pant And Breathe Short-winded Accents Of New Broils To Be Commenced In Stronds Afar Remote.

I May Chance Have Some Odd Quirks And Remnants Of Wit Broken On Me, Because I Have Railed So Long Against Marriage: But Doth Not The Appetite Alter? A Man Loves The Meat In His Youth That He Cannot Endure In His Age. Shall Quips And Sentences And These Paper Bullets Of The Brain Awe A Man From The Career Of His Humour? No, The World Must Be Peopled. When I Said I Would Die A Bachelor, I Did Not Think I Should Live Till I Were Married.