Foul Whisp'rings Are Abroad.

Report Me And My Cause Aright.

For Thy Sweet Love Remember'd Such Wealth Brings That Then I Scorn To Change My State With Kings.

The Quality Of Mercy Is Not Strained

His Steeds To Water At Those Springs On Chaliced Flowers That Lies; And Winking Mary-buds Begin To Ope Their Golden Eyes: With Every Thing That Pretty Is, My Lady Sweet, Arise.

As Chaste As Unsunned Snow.