Men Have Marble, Women Waxen, Minds.

Because It Is A Customary Cross, As Die To Love As Thoughts, And Dreams, And Sighs, Wishes, And Tears, Poor Fancy's Followers.

If I Be Waspish, Best Beware My Sting.

A Contract Of Eternal Bond Of Love, Confirm'd By Mutual Joinder Of Your Hands, Arrested By The Holy Close Of Lips, Strength'ned By The Interchangement Of Your Rings, And All The Ceremony Of This Compact Seal'd In My Function, By My Testimony.

Thus Conscience Does Make Cowards Of Us All; And Thus The Native Hue Of Resolution Is Slicked O'er With The Pale Cast Of Thought

Bid Me Run, And I Will Strive With Things Impossible.