Now, Infidel, I Have You On The

I Am Sure, Though You Can Guess What Temperance Should Be, You Know Not What It Is.

My Prophecy Is But Half His Journey Yet, For Yonder Walls, That Pertly Front Your Town, Yon Towers, Whose Wanton Tops Do Buss The Clouds, Must Kiss Their Own Feet.

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

Each Substance Of A Grief Has Twenty Shadows.

Good Wine Needs No Bush.