Death, Not Romeo, Take My

The Teeming Autumn Big With Rich Increase, Bearing The Wanton Burden Of The Prime Like Widowed Wombs After Their Lords Decease.

What, My Dear Lady Disdain! Are You Yet Living? Beatrice: Is It Possible Disdain Should Die While She Hath Such Meet Food To Feed It As Signior Benedick?

I Like Not Fair Terms And A Villain's Mind.

Confess Yourself To Heaven, Repent What's Past, Avoid What Is To Come, And Do Not Spread The Compost On The Weeds To Make Them Ranker.

Knowing I Lov'd My Books, He Furnish'd Me From Mine Own Library With Volumes That I Prize Above My Dukedom.