Many That Are Not Mad Have, Sure,

Love Bears It Out Even To The Edge Of Doom.

All Hoods Make Not Monks.

Thou Hast The Most Unsavoury Similes.

Make Me A Willow Cabin At Your Gate, And Call Upon My Soul Within The House; Write Loyal Cantons Of Contemned Love And Sing Them Loud Even In The Dead Of Night.

The Play's The Thing, Wherein I'll Catch The Conscience Of The King.