This Flour Of Wifly Patience.

If Love Be Good, From Whence Cometh My Woe?

The Smylere With The Knyf Under The Cloke.

Nowhere So Busy A Man As He There Was And Yet He Seemed Busier Than He Was.

Mordre Wol Out, That Se We Day By Day.

The Life So Brief, The Art So Long In The Learning, The Attempt So Hard, The Conquest So Sharp, The Fearful Joy That Ever Slips Away So Quickly - By All This I Mean Love, Which So Sorely Astounds My Feeling With Its Wondrous Operation, That When I Think Upon It I Scarce Know Whether I Wake Or Sleep.