While We Lie Tumbling In

Sometimes We Are Devils To Ourselves When We Will Tempt The Frailty Of Our Powers, Presuming On Their Changeful Potency.

Foolery, Sir, Does Walk About The Orb Like The Sun; It Shines Everywhere.

Most Subject Is The Fattest Soil To Weeds.

Hamlet: Lady, Shall I Lie In Your Lap? Ophelia: No, My Lord. Hamlet: Did You Think I Meant Country Matters? Ophelia: I Think Nothing, My Lord. Hamlet: That's A Fair Thought To Lie Between Maids' Legs. Ophelia: What Is, My Lord? Hamlet: Nothing.

I'll Say She Looks As Clear As Morning Roses Newly Washed With Dew.