The Gods Are Just, And Of Our

If Music Be The Food Of Love, Play On, Give Me Excess Of It; That Surfeiting, The Appetite May Sicken, And So Die.

A Great Cause Of The Night Is Lack Of The Sun.

Every Good Servant Does Not All Commands.

Stars Hide Your Fires; Let Not Light See My Black And Deep Desires: The Eyes Wink At The Hand; Yet Let That Be Which The Eye Fears, When It Is Done, To See

Remember Thee! Ay, Thou Poor Ghost, While Memory Holds A Seat In This Distracted Globe.