O That A Lady, Of One Man

I Was Not Born Under A Rhyming Planet, Nor I Cannot Woo To In Festival Terms.

Ten Masts Make Not The Altitude Which Thou Hast Perpendicularly Fell. Thy Life's A Miracle.

Foolery, Sir, Does Walk About The Orb Like The Sun; It Shines Everywhere.

I Will Be Brief. Your Noble Son Is Mad.

I Am Thy Father's Spirit; Doom'd For A Certain Term To Walk The Night And, For The Day, Confin'd To Fast In Fires, Till The Foul Crimes, Done In My Days Of Nature, Are Burnt And Purg'd Away.