This Sanguine Coward, This Bed-presser, This Horseback-breaker,

And In Some Perfumes There Is More Delight Than In The Breath That From My Mistress Reeks. I Love To Hear Her Speak, Yet Well I Know That Music Hath A Far More Pleasing Sound.

It Is Thyself, Mine Own Self's Better Part; Mine Eye's Clear Eye, My Dear Heart's Dearer Heart; My Food, My Fortune, And My Sweet Hope's Aim, My Sole Earth's Heaven, And My Heaven's Claim.

Dost Thou Think, Because Thou Art Virtuous, There Shall Be No More Cakes And Ale?

Cold Indeed, And Labor Lost: Then Farewell Heat, And Welcome Frost!

It Is The Cowish Terror Of His Spirit That Dares Not Undertake; He'll Not Feel Wrongs Which Tie Him To An Answer.