Is This Government Of Britain's Isle, And

Who Alone Suffers Suffers Most I' Th' Mind, Leaving Free Things And Happy Shows Behind; But Then The Mind Much Sufferance Doth O'erskip When Grief Hath Mates, And Bearing Fellowship.

Now Is The Winter Of Our Discontent.

Come Away, Come Away, Death, And In Sad Cypres Let Me Be Laid; Fly Away, Fly Away, Breath; I Am Slain By A Fair Cruel Maid.

How Much Salt Water Thrown Away In Waste/ To Season Love, That Of It Doth Not Taste.

Affection Faints Not Like A Pale-faced Coward, But Then Woos Best When Most His Choice Is Froward.