Ay Me! Sad Hours Seem Long.

I Am Not Yet Of Percy's Mind, The Hotspur Of The North; He That Kills Me Some Six Or Seven Dozen Of Scots As A Breakfast, Washes His Hands, And Says To His Wife, 'fie Upon This Quiet Life! I Want Work.

I, Measuring His Affections By My Own, Which Then Most Sought Where Most Might Not Be Found, Being One Too Many By My Weary Self, Pursued My Humor Not Pursuing His, And Gladly Shunned Who Gladly Fled From Me.

There Is No Vice So Simple But Assumes Some Mark Of Virtue On His Outward Parts.

Adieu, Adieu, Adieu! Remember Me.

Beauty Lives With Kindness.