Men's Eyes Were Made To Look, And

Methinks You Are My Glass, And Not My Brother: I See By You I Am A Sweet-faced Youth.

Like The Lily That Once Was Mistress Of The Field And Flourished, I'll Hang My Head And Perish.

The Truest Poetry Is The Most Feigning.

An Old Man, Broken With The Storms Of State, Is Come To Lay His Weary Bones Among Ye; Give Him A Little Earth For Charity!

Fore God, You Have Here A Goodly Dwelling And A Rich.