Words Without Thoughts Never To

Unnatural Deeds Do Breed Unnatural Troubles.

Tis Not A Year Or Two Shows Us A Man: They Are All But Stomachs, And We All But Food; They Eat Us Hungerly, And When They Are Full They Belch Us.

He's All My Exercise, My Mirth, My Matter.

A Breath Thou Art, Servile To All The Skyey Influences.

Earth-treading Stars That Make Dark Heaven Light