Thou Shalt Be Both The

I'll Follow Thee And Make A Heaven Of Hell, To Die Upon The Hand I Love So Well

The Gates Of Monarchs Are Arched So High That Giants May Jet Through And Keep Their Impious Turbans On Without Good Morrow To The Sun.

Slander, Whose Whisper Over The World's Diameter, As Level As The Cannon To Its Blank, Transports Its Poisoned Shot.

I Wish You Well And So I Take My Leave, I Pray You Know Me When We Meet Again.

A Jest's Prosperity Lies In The Ear Of Him That Hears It, Never In The Tongue Of Him That Makes It.