'tis Not Enough To Help

Fondling,' She Saith, 'since I Have Hemm'd Thee Here Within The Circuit Of This Ivory Pale, I'll Be A Park, And Thou Shalt Be My Deer; Feed Where Thou Wilt, On Mountain Or In Dale: Graze On My Lips, And If Those Hills Be Dry, Stray Lower, Where The Pleasant Fountains Lie.

Tell Me Where Is Fancy Bred, Or In The Heart, Or In The Head?

Lord, Lord, How This World Is Given To Lying!

Good Hamlet, Cast Thy Nighted Colour Off ... Do Not For Ever With Thy Vailed Lids Seek For Thy Noble Father In The Dust.

I Pray You, Do Not Fall In Love With Me, For I Am Falser Than Vows Made In Wine.