Let Him Smell His Way To Dover!

Let There Be Gall Enough In Thy Ink, Though Thou Write With A Goose-pen, No Matter.

Why, Who Cries Out On Pride That Can Therein Tax Any Private Party? Doth It Not Flow As Hugely As The Sea Till The Weary Very Means Do Ebb?

I Was Adored Once Too.

Tell Me Where Is Fancy Bred, Or In The Heart, Or In The Head? How Begot, How Nourished? Reply, Reply. It Is Engend'red In The Eyes, With Gazing Fed, And Fancy Dies In The Cradle Where It Lies.

Cry Havoc And Let Slip The Dogs Of War!