The Instruments Of Darkness Tell Us Truths.

Thou Whoreson, Senseless Villain!

In Sweet Music Is Such Art: Killing Care And Grief Of Heart Fall Asleep, Or Hearing, Die.

Like The Lily That Once Was Mistress Of The Field And Flourished, I'll Hang My Head And Perish.

The Tempter Or The Tempted, Who Sins Most? Ha! Not She: Nor Doth She Tempt: But It Is I That, Lying By The Violet In The Sun, Do As The Carrion Does, Not As The Flower, Corrupt With Virtuous Season.

Such An Act That Blurs The Grace And Blush Of Modesty; Calls Virtue Hypocrite; Takes Off The Rose From The Fair Forehead Of An Innocent Love, And Sets A Blister There; Makes Marriage Vows As False As Dicers' Oaths.