I Do Not Hate A Proud Man,

The Sight Of Lovers Feedeth Those In Love.

A Fusty Nut With No Kernel.

The Rarer Action Is In Virtue Than In Vengeance.

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

This Goodly Frame, The Earth, Seems To Me A Sterile Promontory, This Most Excellent Canopy, The Air, Look You, This Brave O'erhanging Firmament, This Majestical Roof Fretted With Golden Fire, Why, It Appears No Other Thing To Me Than A Foul And Pestilent Congregation Of Vapours. What A Piece Of Work Is A Man! How Noble In Reason! How Infinite In Faculty! In Form And Moving How Express And Admirable! In Action How Like An Angel! In Apprehension How Like A God! The Beauty Of The World! The Paragon Of Animals! And Yet, To Me, What Is This Quintessence Of Dust?