How Hard It Is To Hide The

Simply The Thing That I Am Shall Make Me Live.

The Lady Doth Protest Too Much, Methinks.

In Sweet Music Is Such Art: Killing Care And Grief Of Heart Fall Asleep, Or Hearing, Die.

For Conspiracy, I Know Not How It Tastes, Though It Be Dished For Me To Try How.

She Speaks Poniards, And Every Word Stabs.