Thou Art An Elm, My Husband, I

You're In Love? Out Out Of Love? I Love Someone. She Doesn't Love Me.

Unnatural Deeds Do Breed Unnatural Troubles: Infected Minds To Their Deaf Pillows Will Discharge Their Secrets.

What's His Offense? Groping For Trout In A Peculiar River.

Too Much Of Water Hast Thou, Poor Ophelia, And Therefore I Forbid My Tears: But Yet It Is Our Trick; Nature Her Custom Holds, Let Shame Say What It Will: When These Are Gone, The Woman Will Be Out. — Adieu, My Lord! I Have A Speech Of Fire, That Fain Would Blaze, But That This Folly Drowns It.

Rumour Is A Pipe Blown By Surmises, Jealousies, Conjectures And Of So Easy And So Plain A Stop That The Blunt Monster With Uncounted Heads, The Still-discordant Wavering Multitude, Can Play Upon It.