Winter's Not Gone Yet, If The Wild

Why, This Hath Not A Finger's Dignity.

Upon His Royal Face There Is No Note How Dread An Army Hath Enrounded Him.

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

Virtue Itself Scapes Not Calumnious Strokes.

Will You Walk Out Of The Air, My Lord? Hamlet Into My Grave.