Sorrow Breaks Seasons And Reposing

The Man That Hath No Music In Himself

But As The Unthought-on Accident Is Guilty To What We Wildly Do, So We Profess Ourselves To Be The Slaves Of Chance, And Flies Of Every Wind That Blows.

The Thing Of Courage As Rous'd With Rage Doth Sympathise, And, With An Accent Tun'd In Self-same Key, Retorts To Chiding Fortune.

Well, Every One Can Master A Grief But He That Has It.

Eye Of Newt, And Toe Of Frog, Wool Of Bat, And Tongue Of Dog, Adder's Fork, And Blind-worm's Sting, Lizard's Leg, And Owlet's Wing, For A Charm Of Powerful Trouble, Like A Hell-broth Boil And Bubble.