Away! Thou'rt Poison To My

We Are Such Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of.

I Will Praise Any Man That Will Praise Me.

Write Till Your Ink Be Dry, And With Your Tears Moist It Again, And Frame Some Feeling Line That May Discover Such Integrity.

Assume A Virtue, If You Have It Not. That Monster, Custom, Who All Sense Doth Eat; Of Habits Devil, Is Angel Yet In This.

Though Music Oft Hath Such A Charm To Make Bad Good, And Good Provoke To Harm.