Nor Age So Eat Up My Invention.

Oh, God! I Have An Ill-divining Soul!

If It Be True That Good Wine Needs No Bush, 'tis True That A Good Play Needs No Epilogue.

Then Was I As A Tree Whose Boughs Did Bend With Fruit; But In One Night, A Storm Or Robbery, Call It What You Will, Shook Down My Mellow Hangings, Nay, My Leaves, And Left Me Bare To Weather.

There's Little Of The Melancholy Element In Her, My Lord: She Is Never Sad But When She Sleeps; And Not Ever Sad Then; For I Have Heard My Daughter Say, She Hath Often Dreamt Of Unhappiness, And Waked Herself With Laughing.

The One I Love Is The Son Of The One I Hate! -juliet P. 75