How Now, Wit! Whither Wander You?

He Draweth Out The Thread Of His Verbosity Finer Than The Staple Of His Argument.

Love's Not Time's Fool, Though Rosy Lips And Cheeks Within His Bending Sickle's Compass Come.

The Mind Of Guilt Is Full Of Scorpions.

This Look Of Thine Will Hurl My Soul From Heaven.

This Rough Magic I Here Abjure And When I Have Required Some Heavenly Music, Which Even Now I Do, To Work Mine End Upon Their Senses That This Airy Charm Is For, I'll Break My Staff, Bury It Certain Fathoms In The Earth, And Deeper Than Did Ever Plummet Sound, I'll Drown My Book.