See What A Ready Tongue Suspicion Hath!

The Moon's An Arrant Thief, And Her Pale Fire She Snatches From The Sun.

My Love Is Thaw'd; Which, Like A Waxen Image 'gainst A Fire, Bears No Impression Of The Thing It Was

Now The Melancholy God Protect Thee, And The Tailor Make Thy Garments Of Changeable Taffeta, For Thy Mind Is Opal.

Young Adam Cupid, He That Shot So Trim, When King Cophetua Loved The Beggar-maid!

He Doth Nothing But Talk Of His Horses.