Then Hate Me When Thou Wilt, If

Merrily, Merrily Shall I Live Now, Under The Blossom That Hangs On The Bough.

Ideas Are The Very Coinage Of Your Brain.

O, A Kiss Long As My Exile, Sweet As My Revenge! Now, By The Jealous Queen Of Heaven, That Kiss I Carried From Thee, Dear, And My True Lip Hath Virgined It E'er Since.

You Abilities Are Too Infant-like For Doing Much Alone.

The Worm Is Not To Be Trusted.