The tongues of dying men enforce attention like deep harmony.
That which is now a horse, even with a thought The rack dislimms, and makes it indistinct As water is in water
For which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?
And I will make it felony to drink small beer.
Hung be the heavens with black! Yield, day, to night!
Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.