The Hand That Hath Made You Fair

How Strange Or Odd Some'er I Bear Myself, As I Perchance Hereafter Shall Think Meet To Put An Antic Disposition On.

One Whom The Music Of His Own Vain Tongue Doth Ravish Like Enchanting Harmony.

The Gods Are Just, And Of Our Pleasant Vices Make Instruments To Plague Us.

I Am Joined With No Foot Land-rakers, No Long-staff, Sixpenny Strikers, None Of These Mad, Mustachio Purple-hued Maltworms, But With Nobility And Tranquillity.

A Little More Than Kin, And Less Than Kind.