Who Is Here So Vile That Will

Scorn, At First, Makes After-love The More.

But Yet I'll Make Assurance Double Sure, And Take A Bond Of Fate: Thou Shalt Not Live.

I Rather Would Entreat Thy Company; To See The Wonders Of The World Abroad, Than, Living Dully Sluggardized At Home, Wear Out Thy Youth With Shapeless Idleness.

My Free Drift Halts Not Particularly, But Moves Itself In A Wide Sea Of Wax; No Levelled Malice Infects One Comma In The Course I Hold, But Flies An Eagle Flight, Bold And Forth On, Leaving No Tract Behind.

Appetite, A Universal Wolf.