Rough Winds Do Shake The Darling Buds

A Very Little Little Let Us Do And All Is Done.

Thy Food Is Such As Hath Been Belch'd On By Infected Lungs.

You Have Lost No Reputation At All, Unless You Repute Yourself Such A Loser.

We Cannot Fight For Love, As Men May Do; We Shou'd Be Woo'd, And Were Not Made To Woo

What To Ourselves In Passion We Propose, The Passion Ending, Doth The Purpose Lose.