I...kisss The Tender Inward Of Thy Hand.

A Poor Thing, Perhaps, But My Own.

Infirm Of Purpose! Give Me The Daggers: The Sleeping And The Dead Are But As Pictures: ‘tis The Eye Of Childhood That Fears A Painted Devil

Conscience Doth Make Cowards Of Us All.

We Are Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On; And Our Little Life Is Rounded With A Sleep.

I Understand Thy Kisses, And Thou Mine, And That's A Feeling Disputation.