To Gild Refined Gold, To Paint The

What, All So Soon Asleep! I Wish Mine Eyes Would, With Themselves, Shut Up My Thoughts.

Was Ever Woman In This Humour Wooed? Was Ever Woman In This Humour Won?

Give Every Man Thy Ear, But Few Thy Voice.

A Peevish Self-willed Harlotry It Is. *she’s A Stubborn Little Brat.*

I Can No Longer Live By Thinking.