Nor Age So Eat Up

How Soar Sweet Music Is, When Time Is Broke, And No Proportion Kept!

Prosperity's The Very Bond Of Love, Whose Fresh Complexion And Whose Heart Together Affliction Alters.

That Which Is Now A Horse, Even With A Thought The Rack Dislimms, And Makes It Indistinct As Water Is In Water

I Am Not Yet Of Percy's Mind, The Hotspur Of The North; He That Kills Me Some Six Or Seven Dozen Of Scots As A Breakfast, Washes His Hands, And Says To His Wife, 'fie Upon This Quiet Life! I Want Work.

O God, I Could Be Bound In A Nutshell, And Count Myself A King Of Infinite Space – Were It Not That I Have Bad Dreams.