If Chance Will Have Me King, Why,

The Wind-shak'd Surge, With High And Monstrous Main, Seems To Cast Water On The Burning Bear, And Quench The Guards Of The Ever-fixed Pole.

Their Lips Were Four Red Roses On A Stalk.

O Wretched State! O Bosom Black As Death!

Death, That Hath Suck'd The Honey Of Thy Breath Hath Had No Power Yet Upon Thy Beauty.

Every Man Has His Fault, And Honesty Is His.