Dream In Light Years, Challenge Miles, Walk

In Thy Youth Wast As True A Lover, As Ever Sighed Upon A Midnight Pillow

Come Now, What Masques, What Dances Shall We Have To Wear Away This Long Age Of Three Hours Between Our After-supper And Bedtime?

What Have We Here? A Man Or A Fish? Dead Or Alive? A Fish: He Smells Like A Fish; A Very Ancient And Fishlike Smell; A Kind Of Not Of The Newest Poor-john. A Strange Fish!

My Dear, Dear Lord, The Purest Treasure Mortal Times Afford Is Spotless Reputation; That Away Men Are But Gilded Loan Or Painted Clay... Mine Honor Is My Life; Both Grow In One; Take Honor From Me, And My Life Is Done.

Now The Melancholy God Protect Thee, And The Tailor Make Thy Garments Of Changeable Taffeta, For Thy Mind Is Opal.