Words, Words, Mere Words, No Matter From

Pardon, Gentles All, The Flat Unraised Spirits That Have Dared On This Unworthy Scaffold To Bring Forth So Great An Object.

The Blood Weeps From My Heart When I Do Shape, In Forms Imaginary, Th' Unguided Days And Rotten Times That You Shall Look Upon When I Am Sleeping With My Ancestors.

Slander Lives Upon Succession, For Ever Housed Where It Gets Possession.

Silence Is The Perfectest Herault Of Joy. I Were But Little Happy If I Could Say How Much.

The Instances That Second Marriage Move Are Base Respects Of Thrift, But None Of Love.