Opinion Crowns With An Imperial Voice.

What Is Your Substance, Whereof Are You Made, That Millions Of Strange Shadows On You Tend? Since Everyone Hath Every One, One Shade, And You, But One, Can Every Shadow Lend. Describe Adonis, And The Counterfeit Is Poorly Imitated After You. On Helen’s Cheek All Art Of Beauty Set, And You In Grecian Tires Are Painted New. Speak Of The Spring And Foison Of The Year; The One Doth Shadow Of Your Beauty Show, The Other As Your Bounty Doth Appear, And You In Every Blessèd Shape We Know. In All External Grace You Have Some Part, But You Like None, None You, For Constant Heart.

Every Great Drama Has Its Foreshadow.

For This, Be Sure, Tonight Thou Shalt Have Cramps, Side-stitches That Shall Pen Thy Breath Up. Urchins Shall Forth At Vast Of Night That They May Work All Exercise On Thee. Thou Shalt Be Pinched As Thick As Honeycomb, Each Pinch More Stinging Than Bees That Made 'em.

How Strange Or Odd Some'er I Bear Myself, As I Perchance Hereafter Shall Think Meet To Put An Antic Disposition On.

He Is Not Worthy Of The Honey-comb, That Shuns The Hives Because The Bees Have Stings.