To Do A Great Right

That Thou Art Blamed Shall Not Be Thy Defect, For Slander's Mark Was Ever Yet The Fair; The Ornament Of Beauty Is Suspect, A Crow That Flies In Heaven's Sweetest Air.

So They Loved As Love In Twain Had The Essence But In One; Two Distinct, Divisions None.

Macbeth To Witches: What Are These So Wither'd And So Wild In Their Attire, That Look Not Like Th' Inhabitants O' Th' Earth, And Yet Are On 't?

What Is Done Cannot Be Now Amended.

Twere To Consider Too Curiously, To Consider So.