Nature Does Require Her Times Of Preservation.

All Thy Vexations Were But My Trials Of Thy Love, And Thou Hast Strangely Stood The Test; Here, Afore Heaven, I Ratify This My Rich Gift.

Well, Whiles I Am A Beggar, I Will Rail, And Say There Is No Sin But To Be Rich; And Being Rich, My Virtue Then Shall Be To Say There Is No Vice But Beggary

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

Tis In Ourselves That We Are Thus, Or Thus.

Faint Heart Never Won Fair Maid.