Me, Poor Man, My Library Was Dukedom

A Fusty Nut With No Kernel.

Though This Be Madness, Yet There Is Method In't.

What's Past And What's To Come Is Strew'd With Husks And Formless Ruin Of Oblivion.

T'is True: There's Magic In The Web Of It.

Love's Heralds Should Be Thoughts, Which Ten Times Faster Glide Than The Sun's Beams Driving Back Shadows Over Low'ring Hills. Therefore Do Nimble-pinioned Doves Draw Love, And Therefore Hath The Wind-swift Cupid Wings.