The Weakest Kind Of Fruit

My Father Compounded With My Mother Under The Dragon's Tail, And My Nativity Was Under Ursa Major, So That It Follows, I Am Roughand Lecherous. Tut, I Should Have Been That I Am, Had The Maidenliest Star In The Firmament Twinkled On My Bastardizing.

Every Inordinate Cup Is Unbless'd, And The Ingredient Is A Devil.

They Do Not Love That Do Not Show Their Love. The Course Of True Love Never Did Run Smooth. Love Is A Familiar. Love Is A Devil. There Is No Evil Angel But Love.

Is It Possible He Should Know What He Is, And Be That He Is?

We All Are Men, In Our Own Natures Frail, And Capable Of Our Flesh; Few Are Angels.