I Scorn You, Scurvy Companion.

Cold Indeed, And Labor Lost: Then Farewell Heat, And Welcome Frost!

There Is Some Soul Of Goodness In Things Evil, Would Men Observingly Distill It Out.

Thou Hast Her, France; Let Her Be Thine, For We Have No Such Daughter, Nor Shall Ever See That Face Of Hers Again. Therefore Be Gone Without Our Grace, Our Love, Our Benison.

Ay Me! For Aught That Ever I Could Read, Could Ever Hear By Tale Or History, The Course Of True Love Never Did Run Smooth.

Love Is Too Young To Know What Conscience Is.