You Peasant Swain! You Whoreson Malt-horse Drudge!

It Is The Disease Of Not Listening...... That I Am Troubled With.

'tis Better To Bear The Ills We Have Than Fly To Others That We Know Not Of.

Grief Fills The Room Up Of My Absent Child, Lies In His Bed, Walks Up And Down With Me, Puts On His Pretty Look, Repeats His Words, Remembers Me Of His Gracious Parts, Stuffs Out His Vacant Garments With His Form

This Goodly Frame, The Earth, Seems To Me A Sterile Promontory.

Oh, She Doth Teach The Torches To Burn Bright!