We Will Draw The Curtain

The Tyrant Custom, Most Grave Senators, Hath Made The Flinty And Steel Couch Of War My Thrice-driven Bed Of Down.

O Heresy In Fair, Fit For These Days, A Giving Hand, Though Foul, Shall Have Fair Praise.

For My Part, If A Lie May Do Thee Grace, I'll Gild It With The Happiest Terms I Have.

If Music Be The Food Of Love, Play On, Give Me Excess Of It; That Surfeiting, The Appetite May Sicken, And So Die.

The Object Of Art Is To Give Life A Shape.