Jigging veins of rhyming mother wits.
Was this the face that launched a thousand ships, and burnt the topless towers of Ileum?
O, thou art fairer than the evening air clad in the beauty of a thousand stars.
I am Envy...I cannot read and therefore wish all books burned.
Had I as many souls as there be stars, I'd give them all for Mephistopheles!
That perfect bliss and sole felicity, the sweet fruition of an earthly crown.