I Am Sir Oracle, And

Now The Melancholy Of God Protect Thee, And The Tailor Make Thy Doublet Of Changable Taffata, For Thy Mind Is A Very Opal. I Would Have Men Of Such Constancy Put To Sea, That Their Business Might Be Everything, And Their Intent Everywhere, For That's It, That Always Makes A Good Voyage Of Nothing.

Right Joyous Are We To Behold Your Face, Most Worthy Brother England; Fairly Met!

Your Gentleness Shall Force More Than Your Force Move Us To Gentleness.

If I Profane With My Unworthiest Hand This Holy Shrine, The Gentle Fine Is This: My Lips, Two Blushing Pilgrims, Ready Stand To Smooth That Rough Touch With A Tender Kiss.

Conscience Doth Make Cowards Of Us All.