A tale in everything.

We murder to dissect.

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.

Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.

But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?

But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for humankind, Is happy as a lover.

Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.