All Surfeit Is The Father Of Much

Sin From Thy Lips? O Trespass Sweetly Urged! Give Me My Sin Again.

We Are The Lords Of All Eternity

Thou Weedy Elf-skinned Canker-blossom!

I Pray You, In Your Letters, When You Shall These Unlucky Deeds Relate, Speak Of Me As I Am; Nothing Extenuate, Nor Set Down Aught In Malice. Then Must You Speak Of One That Loved Not Wisely But Too Well; Of One Not Easily Jealous, But Being Wrought, Perplexed In The Extreme. . .

Methinks A Father Is At The Nuptial Of His Son A Guest That Best Becomes The Table.