I'll Note You In My Book Of

O That My Tongue Were In The Thunder's Mouth! Then With Passion Would I Shake The World, And Rouse From Sleep That Fell Anatomy Which Cannot Hear A Lady's Feeble Voice, Which Scorns A Modern Invocation.

I Was Not Born Under A Rhyming Planet, Nor I Cannot Woo To In Festival Terms.

There's Her Cousin, An She Were Not Possessed With A Fury, Exceeds Her As Much In Beauty As The First Of May Doth The Last Of December.

I Am A Kind Of Burr; I Shall Stick.

Here Is A Rural Fellow That Will Not Be Denied Your Highness' Presence: He Brings You Figs.