The Eagle Suffers Little Birds To Sing.

The Tyrant Custom, Most Grave Senators, Hath Made The Flinty And Steel Couch Of War My Thrice-driven Bed Of Down.

Tell Me Where Is Fancy Bred, Or In The Heart, Or In The Head?

Away! Thou'rt Poison To My Blood.

Alack, The Night Comes On, And The Bleak Winds Do Sorely Ruffle; For Many Miles About There's Scarce A Bush.

Nothing Comes From Doing Nothing.