The Sight Of Lovers Feedeth Those In

Dissembling Courtesy! How Fine This Tyrant Can Trickle When She Wounds!

Which Can Say More Than This Rich Praise, That You Alone Are You?

Sir, The Year Growing Ancient, Not Yet On Summer's Death Nor On The Birth Of Trembling Winter, The Fairest Flowers O' Th' Season Are Our Carnations And Streaked Gillyvors, Which Some Call Nature's Bastards.

My Long Sickness Of Health And Living Now Begins To Mend, And Nothing Brings Me All Things.

The Devil Knew What He Did When He Made Men Politic; He Crossed Himself By It.