Methinks You Are My Glass, And Not

My Long Sickness Of Health And Living Now Begins To Mend, And Nothing Brings Me All Things.

I Loved Ophelia. Forty Thousand Brothers Could Not, With All Their Quantity Of Love, Make Up My Sum.

Thy Tongue Makes Welsh As Sweet As Ditties Highly Penn'd, Sung By A Fair Queen In A Summer's Bower, With Ravishing Division, To Her Lute.

What Though Care Killed A Cat, Thou Hast Mettle Enough In Thee To Kill Care.

Taste Your Legs, Sire: Put Them Into Motion.