I Scorn You, Scurvy Companion.

Here's That Which Is Too Weak To Be A Sinner, Honest Water, Which Ne'er Left Man I' The Mire.

Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day? Thou Art More Lovely And More Temperate: Rough Winds Do Shake The Darling Buds Of May, And Summer's Lease Hath All Too Short A Date . . .

Love That Well Which Thou Must Leave Ere Long.

This Is The Third Time; I Hope Good Luck Lies In Odd Numbers. Away; Go. They Say There Is Divinity In Odd Numbers, Either In Nativity, Chance, Or Death.

Wisdom And Fortune Combating Together, If That The Former Dare But What It Can, No Chance May Shake It.