I Cannot Tell What The Dickens His

People’s Good Deeds We Write In Water. The Evil Deeds Are Etched In Brass.

Now I Am Past All Comforts Here, But Prayer.

But, Soft! What Light Through Yonder Window Breaks? It Is The East, And Juliet Is The Sun.

I Pray Thee Cease Thy Counsel, Which Falls Into Mine Ears As Profitless As Water In A Sieve.

Thou Art Most Rich, Being Poor; Most Choice, Forsaken; And Most Lov'd, Despis'd! Thee And Thy Virtues Here I Seize Upon.