Do Not Speak Like A

The Rose Looks Fair, But Fairer We It Deem For That Sweet Odour Which Doth In It Live.

If She Be Not Honest, Chaste, And True, There's No Man Happy.

My Thought, Whose Murder Yet Is But Fantastical, Shakes So My Single State Of Man That Function Is Smothered In Surmise, And Nothing Is But What Is Not.

Your Tale, Sir, Would Cure Deafness.

They That Touch Pitch Will Be Defiled.