Now I Am Past All Comforts Here,

But Shall We Wear These Glories For A Day? Or Shall They Last, And We Rejoice In Them?

I Feel It Gone, Yet Know Not When It Left.

If Ever (as That Ever May Be Near) You Meet In Some Fresh Cheek The Power Of Fancy, Then Shall You Know The Wounds Invisible That Love's Keen, Arrows Make.

He Receives Comfort Like Cold Porridge.

Ha. "against My Will I Am Sent To Bid You Come Into Dinner." There's A Double Meaning In That. -benedick (much Ado)