What Are Kings, When Regiment

Ah Fair Zenocrate, Divine Zenocrate, Fair Is Too Foul An Epithet For Thee.

Cut Is The Branch That Might Have Grown Full Straight, And Burned Is Apollo's Laurel Bough, That Sometime Grew Within This Learned Man. Faustus Is Gone.

My Men Like Satyrs Grazing On The Lawns, / Shall With Their Goat-feet Dance An Antic Hay.

Jigging Veins Of Rhyming Mother Wits.

What Feeds Me Destroys Me.