And Nothing Is, But What Is Not.

Let Fame, That All Hunt After In Their Lives, Live Regist'red Upon Our Brazen Tombs And Then Grace Us In The Disgrace Of Death; When, Spite Of Cormorant Devouring Time, Th' Endeavor Of This Present Breath May Buy That Honor Which Shall Bate His Scythe's Keen Edge And Make Us Heirs Of All Eternity.

We Are Not Ourselves When Nature, Being Oppressed, Commands The Mind To Suffer With The Body.

Well, While I Live I'll Fear No Other Thing So Sore As Keeping Safe Nerissa's Ring.

My Love Is As A Fever, Longing Still For That Which Longer Nurseth The Disease, Feeding On That Which Doth Preserve The Ill, Th' Uncertain Sickly Appetite To Please. My Reason, The Physician To My Love, Angry That His Prescriptions Are Not Kept, Hath Left Me, And I Desperate Now Approve Desire Is Death, Which Physic Did Except.

For Where Is Any Author In The World Teaches Such Beauty As A Woman's Eye?