I Will Chide No Breather In The

Your Face Is A Book, Where Men May Read Strange Matters.

The Present Eye Praises The Present Object.

Can It Be That Modesty May More Betray Our Sense Than Woman's Lightness? Having Waste Ground Enough, Shall We Desire To Raze The Sanctuary And Pitch Our Evils There?

I May Neither Choose Who I Would, Nor Refuse Who I Dislike; So Is The Will Of A Living Daughter Curbed By The Will Of A Dead Father.

Come Unto These Yellow Sands, And Then Take Hands. Curtsied When You Have And Kissed The Wild Waves Whist, Foot Is Featly Here And There; And, Sweet Sprites, The Burden Bear. Ariel's Song, Scene Ii, Act I