Who Soars Too Near The Sun, With

If I Were A Woman I Would Kiss As Many Of You As Had Beards That Pleased Me, Complexions That Liked Me And Breaths That I Defied Not

The Color Of The King Doth Come And Go, Between His Purpose And His Conscience, Like Heralds 'twixt Two Dreadful Battles Set: His Passion Is So Ripe, It Needs Must Break.

I Do Know When The Blood Burns, How Prodigal The Soul Lends The Tongue Vows.

Every Why Hath A Wherefore.

How Oft The Sight Of Means To Do Ill Deeds Makes Ill Deeds Done!