You Are Not Wood, You Are Not

Faith, Stay Here This Night; They Will Surely Do Us No Harm; You Saw They Speak Us Fair, Give Us Gold; Methinks They Are Such A Gentle Nation That, But For The Mountain Of Mad Flesh That Claims Marriage Of Me, Could Find In My Heart To Stay Here Still And Turn Witch.

I Will Go Wash; And When My Face Is Fair, You Shall Perceive Whether I Blush Or No.

Things In Motion Sooner Catch The Eye Than What Not Stirs.

Will You Walk Out Of The Air, My Lord? Hamlet Into My Grave.

Opinion's But A Fool, That Makes Us Scan The Outward Habit By The Inward Man.