O, She's Warm! If This Be Magic,

The Leopard Does Not Change His Spots.

A Great Cause Of The Night Is Lack Of The Sun.

The Language I Have Learnt These Forty Years, My Native English, Now I Must Forgo; And Now My Tongue's Use Is To Me No More Than An Unstringed Viol Or A Harp, Or Like A Cunning Instrument Cased Up Or, Being Open, Put Into His Hands That Knows No Touch To Tune The Harmony.

I Loved Ophelia. Forty Thousand Brothers Could Not, With All Their Quantity Of Love, Make Up My Sum.

You Draw Me, You Hard-hearted Adamant; But Yet You Draw Not Iron, For My Heart Is True As Steel: Leave You Your Power To Draw, And I Shall Have No Power To Follow You.