Come Not Between The Dragon And His

Fight To The Last Gasp.

Sweet Flowers Are Slow And Weeds Make Haste.

Myself--a Prince By Fortune Of My Birth, Near To The King In Blood, And Near In Love Till You Did Make Him Misinterpret Me-- Have Stooped My Neck Under Your Injuries And Sighed My English Breath In Foreign Clouds, Eating The Bitter Bread Of Banishment, Whilst You Have Fed Upon My Signories, Disparked My Parks And Felled My Forest Woods, From My Own Windows Torn My Household Coat, Rased Out My Imprese, Leaving Me No Sign, Save Men's Opinions And My Living Blood, To Show The World I Am A Gentleman.

For Never Was A Story Of More Woe Than This Of Juliet And Her Romeo.

Our Jovial Star Reigned At His Birth.