Most Subject Is The Fattest Soil To

The Gates Of Monarchs Are Arched So High That Giants May Jet Through And Keep Their Impious Turbans On Without Good Morrow To The Sun.

Madam, You Have Bereft Me Of All Words, Only My Blood Speaks To You In My Veins.

Thy Tongue Makes Welsh As Sweet As Ditties Highly Penn'd, Sung By A Fair Queen In A Summer's Bower, With Ravishing Division, To Her Lute.

If This Were Played Upon A Stage Now, I Could Condemn It As An Improbable Fiction.

There's Not The Smallest Orb Which Thou Behold'st But In His Motion Like An Angel Sings.