I Am Indeed, Sir, A

Love, Whose Month Is Ever May, Spied A Blossom Passing Fair, Playing In The Wanton Air: Through The Velvet Leaves The Wind, All Unseen Can Passage Find; That The Lover, Sick To Death, Wish'd Himself The Heaven's Breath.

I Am Too Old To Fawn Upon A Nurse, Too Far In Years To Be A Pupil Now.

This Tyrant, Whose Sole Name Blisters Our Tongues,was Once Thought Honest.

Eye Of Newt, And Toe Of Frog, Wool Of Bat, And Tongue Of Dog, Adder's Fork, And Blind-worm's Sting, Lizard's Leg, And Owlet's Wing, For A Charm Of Powerful Trouble, Like A Hell-broth Boil And Bubble.

Things In Motion Sooner Catch The Eye Than What Not Stirs.