I Hate The Murderer, Love Him Murdered.

Who Is It Can Read A Woman?

Sir, In My Heart There Was A Kind Of Fighting That Would Not Let Me Sleep.

O, Here Will I Set Up My Everlasting Rest And Shake The Yoke Of Inauspicious Stars From The World-wearied Flesh

You'd Be So Lean, That Blast Of January Would Blow You Through And Through. Now, My Fair'st Friend, I Would I Had Some Flowers O' The Spring That Might Become Your Time Of Day.

For I Have Sworn Thee Fair, And Thought Thee Bright, Who Art As Black As Hell, As Dark As Night.