You Take My Life When You Do

So. Lie There, My Art.

Do You Take Me For A Sponge, My Lord? Hamlet: Ay, Sir; That Soaks Up The King's Countenance, His Rewards, His Authorities. But Such Officers Do The King Best Service In The End: He Keeps Them, Like An Ape, In The Corner Of His Jaw; First Mouthed, To Be Last Swallowed: When He Needs What You Have Gleaned, It Is But Squeezing You, And, Sponge, You Shall Be Dry Again. Rosencrantz: I Understand You Not, My Lord. Hamlet: I Am Glad Of It: A Knavish Speech Sleeps In A Foolish Ear.

There Is A Willow Grows Aslant A Brook, That Shows His Hoar Leaves In The Glassy Stream; There With Fantastic Garlands Did She Come Of Crow-flowers, Nettles, Daisies, And Long Purples That Liberal Shepherds Give A Grosser Name, But Our Cold Maids Do Dead Men's Fingers Call Them: There, On The Pendent Boughs Her Coronet Weeds Clambering To Hang, An Envious Sliver Broke; When Down Her Weedy Trophies And Herself Fell In The Weeping Brook.

Trust Not Your Daughter's Minds By What You See Them Act.

Melancholy Is The Nurse Of Frenzy.