The Quality Of Nothing Hath

Fear And Niceness, The Handmaids Of All Women, Or More Truly, Woman Its Pretty Self.

Fat Paunches Have Lean Pates, And Dainty Bits Make Rich The Ribs, But Backrout Quite The Wits.

Pray, Love, Remember: And There Is Pansies, That's For Thoughts.

O, That This Too Too Solid Flesh Would Melt Thaw And Resolve Itself Into A Dew! Or That The Everlasting Had Not Fix'd His Canon 'gainst Self-slaughter! O God! God! How Weary, Stale, Flat And Unprofitable, (135) Seem To Me All The Uses Of This World! Fie On't! Ah Fie! 'tis An Unweeded Garden, That Grows To Seed; Things Rank And Gross In Nature Possess It Merely. That It Should Come To This! But Two Months Dead: Nay, Not So Much, Not Two: (140) So Excellent A King; That Was, To This.

Tis In My Memory Lock'd, And You Yourself Shall Keep The Key Of It.