That Truth Should Be Silent I Had

In Thy Youth Wast As True A Lover, As Ever Sighed Upon A Midnight Pillow

I Have A Bone To Pick With Fate

O Helena, Goddess, Nymph, Perfect, Divine! To What, My Love, Shall I Compare Thine Eyne? Crystal Is Muddy. O, How Ripe In Show Thy Lips, Those Kissing Cherries, Tempting Grow!

He Doth Nothing But Talk Of His Horses.

O The World Is But A Word; Were It All Yours To Give It In A Breath, How Quickly Were It Gone!