He That Dies Pays All Debts.

Things Base And Vile, Holding No Quantity, Love Can Transpose To Form And Dignity

I Wish My Horse Had The Speed Of Your Tongue.

Love, Whose Month Is Ever May, Spied A Blossom Passing Fair, Playing In The Wanton Air: Through The Velvet Leaves The Wind, All Unseen Can Passage Find; That The Lover, Sick To Death, Wish'd Himself The Heaven's Breath.

The Undeserver May Sleep When The Man Of Action Is Called On.

Well, Honor Is The Subject Of My Story.