'tis Brief, My Lord...as Woman's Love.

Though She Be But Little, She Is Fierce!

Swear Me, Kate, Like A Lady As Thou Art, A Good Mouth-filling Oath.

The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose, And On Old Hiems' Thin And Icy Crown An Odorous Chaplet Of Sweet Summer Buds Is, As In Mockery, Set. The Spring, The Summer, The Childing Autumn, Angry Winter, Change Their Wonted Liveries, And The Mazed World, By Their Increase, Now Knows Not Which Is Which.

Love Is Not Love That Alters When It Alteration Finds.

[thine] Face Is Not Worth Sunburning.