The Course Of True Love Never Did

Though Death Be Poor, It Ends A Mortal Woe.

Your Tale, Sir, Would Cure Deafness.

If They Love They Know Not Why, They Hate Upon No Better Ground, They Hate Upon No Better A Ground

That Strain Again! It Had A Dying Fall: O, It Came O'er My Ear Like The Sweet Sound That Breathes Upon A Bank Of Violets, Stealing And Giving Odour! Enough; No More: 'tis Not So Sweet As It Was Before.

How Can Tyrants Safely Govern Home, Unless Abroad They Purchase Great Alliance.