The Barge She Sat In,

We Cannot All Be Masters.

Free From Gross Passion Or Of Mirth Of Anger Constant Spirit, Not Swerving With The Blood, Garnish'd And Deck'd In Modest Compliment, Not Working With The Eye Without The Ear, And But In Purged Judgement Trusting Neither? Such And So Finely Bolted Didst Thou Seem.

I Hold The World But As The World, Gratiano!

More Of Your Conversation Would Infect My Brain.

Who Soars Too Near The Sun, With Golden Wings, Melts Them.