Be Checked For Silence, But Never Taxed

To Unpathed Waters, Undreamed Shores.

Now Would I Give A Thousand Furlongs Of Sea For An Acre Of Barren Ground.

She Never Told Her Love, But Let Concealment, Like A Worm 'i Th' Bud, Feed On Her Damask Cheek. She Pinned In Thought; And, With A Green And Yellow Melancholy, She Sat Like Patience On A Monument, Smiling At Grief. Was Not This Love Indeed? We Men May Say More, Swear More; But Indeed Our Shows Are More Than Will; For We Still Prove Much In Our Vows But Little In Our Love.

O Gentle Son, Upon The Heat And Flame Of Thy Distemper, Sprinkle Cool Patience.

Sir, He's A Good Dog, And A Fair Dog.