What Must Be Shall Be.

I Can See He's Not In Your Good Books,' Said The Messenger. 'no, And If He Were I Would Burn My Library.

Cowards Die Many Times; A Brave Man Dies But Once.

Fondling,' She Saith, 'since I Have Hemm'd Thee Here Within The Circuit Of This Ivory Pale, I'll Be A Park, And Thou Shalt Be My Deer; Feed Where Thou Wilt, On Mountain Or In Dale: Graze On My Lips, And If Those Hills Be Dry, Stray Lower, Where The Pleasant Fountains Lie.

The Barge She Sat In, Like A Burnish'd Throne, Burnt On The Water.

Let Me Be Boiled To Death With Melancholy.