My Wits Begin To Turn.

For Grief Is Crowned With Consolation.

The Gods Are Just, And Of Our Pleasant Vices Make Instruments To Plague Us.

I'll Say She Looks As Clear As Morning Roses Newly Washed With Dew.

Thou Art A Boil, A Plague Sore, An Embossed Carbuncle In My Corrupted Blood.

Men In Rage Strike Those That Wish Them Best.