I Love A Ballad In

The Man That Hath No Music In Himself, Nor Is Not Moved With Concord Of Sweet Sounds, Is Fit For Treasons, Stratagems And Spoils.

I Bear A Charmed Life, Which Must Not Yield To One Of Woman Born.

She Speaks Poniards, And Every Word Stabs.

Most Dangerous Is That Temptation That Doth Goad Us On To Sin In Loving Virtue.

I'll Be Supposed Upon A Book, His Face Is The Worst Thing About Him.