Rough Winds Do Shake The Darling Buds

He That Sleeps Feels Not The Tooth-ache

He's All My Exercise, My Mirth, My Matter.

To Kill, I Grant, Is Sin's Extremest Gust; But, In Defence, By Mercy, 'tis Most Just.

By Being Seldom Seen, I Could Not Stir But Like A Comet I Was Wondered At.

It Is The Bright Day That Brings Forth The Adder, And That Craves Wary Walking.