The Clock Upbraids Me With The Waste

And Keep You In The Rear Of Your Affection, Out Of The Shot And Danger Of Desire, The Chariest Maid Is Prodigal Enough If She Unmasks Her Beauty To The Moon.

Do You Bite Your Thumb At Us, Sir?

There Is None But He Whose Being I Do Fear; And Under Him My Genius Is Rebuked, As It Is Said Mark Antony's Was By Caesar.

The Little Dogs And All, Tray, Blanch, And Sweetheart-see, They Bark At Me.

Sorrow Breaks Seasons And Reposing Hours, Makes The Night Morning, And The Noontide Night.