Though Death Be Poor, It Ends A

Experience Is By Industry Achieved, And Perfected By The Swift Course Of Time.

Ay; Beauty's Princely Majesty Is Such, Confounds The Tongue And Makes The Senses Rough.

Yet Mark'd I Where The Bolt Of Cupid Fell: It Fell Upon A Little Western Flower, Before Milk-white, Now Purple With Love's Wound, And Maidens Call It Love-in-idleness.

We Are Such Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of.

When I Said I Would Die A Bachelor, I Did Not Think I Should Live Till I Were Married.