The Morning Steals Upon The Night, Melting

One Touch Of Nature Makes The Whole World Kin.

The Man That Hath No Music In Himself, Nor Is Not Moved With Concord Of Sweet Sounds, Is Fit For Treasons, Stratagems And Spoils.

All The Contagion Of The South Light On You, You Shames Of Rome! You Herd Of--boils And Plagues Plaster You O'er; That You May Be Abhorr'd Further Than Seen, And One Infect Another Against The Wind A Mile!

Though I Be But Prince Of Wales, Yet I Am The King Of Courtesy.

I Am As Vigilant As A Cat To Steal Cream.