The Third Day Comes A Frost, A

Macbeth To Witches: What Are These So Wither'd And So Wild In Their Attire, That Look Not Like Th' Inhabitants O' Th' Earth, And Yet Are On 't?

My Wits Begin To Turn.

I Am Falser Than Vows Made In Wine.

Oh, Injurious Love, That Respites Me A Life, Whose Very Comfort Is Still A Dying Horror

In Persons Grafted In A Serious Trust, Negligence Is A Crime.