The Truest Poetry Is The

Out, Damned Spot! Out, I Say! One: Two: Why, Then 'tis Time To Do't. Hell Is Murky!

The Brightness Of Her Cheek Would Shame Those Stars As Daylight Doth A Lamp; Her Eyes In Heaven Would Through The Airy Region Stream So Bright That Birds Would Sing, And Think It Were Not Night.

Here Feel We But The Penalty Of Adam, The Seasons' Difference, As The Icy Fang And Churlish Chiding Of The Winter's Wind, Which, When It Bites And Blows Upon My Body, Even Till I Shrink With Cold, I Smile.

As In A Theatre, The Eyes Of Men, After A Well-graced Actor Leaves The Stage, Are Idly Bent On Him That Enters Next.

Melancholy Is The Nurse Of Frenzy.