Love Looks Not With The Eyes, But

That Man That Hath A Tongue, I Say Is No Man, If With His Tongue He Cannot Win A Woman.

The Moon Of Rome, Chaste As The Icicle That's Curded By The Frost From Purest Snow.

There's Little Of The Melancholy Element In Her, My Lord: She Is Never Sad But When She Sleeps; And Not Ever Sad Then; For I Have Heard My Daughter Say, She Hath Often Dreamt Of Unhappiness, And Waked Herself With Laughing.

My Dull Brain Was Wrought With Things Forgotten.

Since My Dear Soul Was Mistress Of Her Choice And Could Of Men Distinguish Her Election, Sh'ath Sealed Thee For Herself.