Love Will Not Be Spurred To What

Thou Art A Very Ragged Wart.

Ah Me, How Weak A Thing The Heart Of Woman Is!

Every Good Servant Does Not All Commands.

Conceit, More Rich In Matter Than In Words, Brags Of His Substance, Not Of Ornament: They Are But Beggars That Can Count Their Worth; But My True Love Is Grown To Such Excess, I Cannot Sum Up Half My Sum Of Wealth.

I Cannot, Nor I Will Not Hold Me Still; My Tongue, Though Not My Heart, Shall Have His Will.