Winter's Not Gone Yet, If The Wild

The Thane Of Cawdor Lives, A Prosperous Gentleman; And To Be King Stands Not Within The Prospect Of Belief, No More Than To Be Cawdor.

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

If Ever (as That Ever May Be Near) You Meet In Some Fresh Cheek The Power Of Fancy, Then Shall You Know The Wounds Invisible That Love's Keen, Arrows Make.

You, And Your Lady, Take From My Heart All Thankfulness!

O, Let Me Kiss That Hand! King Lear: Let Me Wipe It First; It Smells Of Mortality.