Hate Pollutes The Mind.

What, No More Ceremony? See, My Women! Against The Blown Rose May They Stop Their Nose That Kneel'd Unto The Buds.

I'll Be Damned For Never A King's Son In Christendom.

Ambition's Debt Is Paid.

When Daisies Pied And Violets Blue And Lady-smocks All Silver-white And Cuckoo-buds Of Yellow Hue Do Paint The Meadows With Delight, The Cuckoo Then, On Every Tree, Mocks Married Men; For Thus Sings He, Cuckoo; Cuckoo, Cuckoo; O, Word Of Fear, Unpleasing To A Married Ear.

We Make Ourselves Fools To Disport Ourselves And Spend Our Flatteries To Drink Those Men Upon Whose Age We Void It Up Again With Poisonous Spite And Envy.