The Poet Is The Nearest Borderer Upon

Indeed There's A Woundy Luck In Names.

Cut Men's Throats With Whisperings.

I Do Honor The Very Flea Of His Dog.

If You Succeed Not, Cast Not Away The Quills Yet, Nor Scratch The Wainscot, Beat Not The Poor Desk, But Bring All To The Forge And File Again; Turn It New.

I Now Think, Love Is Rather Deaf, Than Blind, For Else It Could Not Be, That She, Whom I Adore So Much, Should So Slight Me, And Cast My Love Behind.