Put Forth Thy Hand, Reach

O Wretched State! O Bosom Black As Death!

Foul Cankering Rust The Hidden Treasure Frets, But Gold That's Put To Use More Gold Begets.

I Kissed Thee Ere I Killed Thee. No Way But This, Killing Myself, To Die Upon A Kiss.

Cupid Is A Knavish Lad, Thus To Make Poor Females Mad.

There Is No Terror, Cassius, In Your Threats, For I Am Armed So Strong In Honesty That They Pass By Me As The Idle Wind