More Of Your Conversation Would Infect My

These Violent Delights Have Violent Ends And In Their Triump Die, Like Fire And Powder Which, As They Kiss, Consume

It Was Always Yet The Trick Of Our English Nation, If They Have A Good Thing, To Make It Too Common.

The Deep Of Night Is Crept Upon Our Talk, And Nature Must Obey Necessity.

Can We Outrun The Heavens?

I Am Disgraced, Impeached, And Baffled Here, Pierced To The Soul With Slander's Venomed Spear.