It Is A Basilisk Unto Mine Eye,

A Little Water Clears Us Of This Deed.

My Wits Begin To Turn.

Glory Is Like A Circle In The Water

There Is None Of My Uncle's Marks Upon You; He Taught Me How To Know A Man In Love; In Which Cage Of Rushes I Am Sure You Are Not Prisoner.

Silence Is The Perfectest Herault Of Joy. I Were But Little Happy If I Could Say How Much.