Thou Weedy Elf-skinned Canker-blossom!

The Stroke Of Death Is As A Lover's Pinch, Which Hurts And Is Desired.

What My Tongue Dares Not That My Heart Shall Say

While He Was Drunk Asleep, Or In His Rage, Or In The Incestuous Pleasure Of His Bed.

Give Me To Drink Mandragora.

Sleep, That Sometimes Shuts Up Sorrow's Eye.