Of One That Lov'd Not Wisely But

For God's Sake, Let Us Sit Upon The Ground, And Tell Sad Stories Of The Death Of Kings... All Murdered; For Within The Hollow Crown That Rounds The Mortal Temples Of A King, Keeps Death His Court... And With A Little Pin Bores Through His Castle Wall, And Farewell King!

Speak, What Trade Art Thou? Why, Sir, A Carpenter. Where Is Thy Leather Apron And Thy Rule? What Does Thou With Thy Best Apparel On?

A Maiden Hath No Tongue--but Thought.

Home-keeping Youth Have Ever Homely Wits.

Affliction May One Day Smile Again; And Till Then, Sit Thee Down, Sorrow!.