True, I Talk Of Dreams, Which Are

Are You Sure/that We Are Awake? It Seems To Me/that Yet We Sleep, We Dream

Now, Infidel, I Have You On The Hip!

At Christmas I No More Desire A Rose Than Wish A Snow In May's New-fangled Mirth; But Like Of Each Thing That In Season Grows.

The Cat Will Mew, And Dog Will Have His Day.

Poor Desdemona! I Am Glad Thy Father's Dead. Thy Match Was Mortal To Him, And Pure Grief Shore His Old Thread In Twain.