Each Substance Of A Grief Has Twenty

Things At The Worst Will Cease Or Else Climb Upward To What They Were Before.

He's Of The Colour Of The Nutmeg. And Of The Heat Of The Ginger.... He Is Pure Air And Fire; And The Dull Elements Of Earth And Water Never Appear In Him, But Only In Patient Stillness While His Rider Mounts Him; He Is Indeed A Horse, And All Other Jades You May Call Beasts.

When You Do Dance, I Wish You A Wave O' The Sea, That You Might Ever Do Nothing But That.

The Peace Of Heaven Is Theirs That Lift Their Swords, In Such A Just And Charitable War.

I Would Challenge You To A Battle Of Wits, But I See You Are Unarmed!