There Is No Vice So Simple But

Give Obedience Where 'tis Truly Owed.

Rashly, And Praised Be Rashness For It--let Us Know, Our Indiscretion Sometime Serves Us Well When Our Deep Plots Do Pall, And That Should Learn Us There's A Divinity That Shapes Our Ends, Rough-hew Them How We Will

He's Loved Of The Distracted Multitude, Who Like Not In Their Judgement, But Their Eyes.

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

A Woman Moved Is Like A Fountain Troubled, Muddy, Ill-seeming, Thick, Bereft Of Beauty.