Do Thou Amend Thy Face, And I'll

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

Give Me Mine Angle, We'll To Th' River: There, My Music Playing Far Off, I Will Betray Tawny-finned Fishes. My Bended Hook Shall Pierce Their Slimy Jaws; And As I Draw Them Up, I'll Think Them Every One An Antony, And Say, 'ah, Ha! Are Caught!'

Fore God, You Have Here A Goodly Dwelling And A Rich.

She Moves Me Not, Or Not Removes At Least Affection's Edge In Me.

I Am Not In The Giving Vein Today.