I Have A Bone To Pick With

You Are Strangely Troublesome.

They Say Miracles Are Past.

There's Place And Means For Every Man Alive.

Though Music Oft Hath Such A Charm To Make Bad Good, And Good Provoke To Harm.

That Thou Art Blamed Shall Not Be Thy Defect, For Slander's Mark Was Ever Yet The Fair; The Ornament Of Beauty Is Suspect, A Crow That Flies In Heaven's Sweetest Air.