Retire Me To My Milan, Where Every

The Worm Is Not To Be Trusted.

[s]ince Brevity Is The Soul Of Wit, And Tediousness The Limbs And Outward Flourishes, I Will Be Brief.

What Drink'st Thou Oft, Instead Of Homage Sweet, But Poisoned Flattery?

I Do Not Seek To Quench Your Love's Hot Fire, But Qualify The Fire's Extreme Rage, Lest It Should Burn Above The Bounds Of Reason.

As You From Crimes Would Pardon'd Be, Let Your Indulgence Set Me Free.