A Sympathy In Choice.

I Feel It Gone, Yet Know Not When It Left.

I Wish My Horse Had The Speed Of Your Tongue.

As For My Wife, I Would You Had Her Spirit In Such Another; The Third O' Th' World Is Yours, Which With A Snaffle You May Pace Easy, But Not Such A Wife.

Then Will I Raise Aloft The Milk-white Rose. For Whose Sweet Smell The Air Shall Be Perfumed.

There Is Some Soul Of Goodness In Things Evil, Would Men Observingly Distill It Out.