There Is No Slander In An Allowed

Orpheus With His Lute Made Trees, And The Mountain Tops That Freeze, Bow Themselves, When He Did Sing; To His Music, Plants And Flowers Ever Sprung; As Sun And Showers There Had Made A Lasting Spring. Every Thing That Heard Him Play, Even The Billows Of The Sea, Hung Their Heads, And Then Lay By. In Sweet Music Is Such Art, Killing Care And Grief Of Heart Fall Asleep, Or Hearing, Die.

A Lover Goes Toward His Beloved As Enthusiastically As A Schoolboy Leaving His Books, But When He Leaves His Girlfriend, He Feels As Miserable As The Schoolboy On His Way To School. (act 2, Scene 2)

If You Spend Word For Word With Me, I Shall Make Your Wit Bankrupt.

Make The Upcoming Hour Overflow With Joy, And Let Pleasure Drown The Brim.

A Beggar's Book Outworths A Noble's Blood.