Unhappy That I Am, I Cannot Heave

If By Chance I Talk A Little Wild, Forgive Me; I Had It From My Father.

Do All Men Kill The Things They Do Not Love?

Hasty Marriage Seldom Proveth Well.

Ay Me! For Aught That I Could Ever Read, Could Ever Hear By Tale Or History, The Course Of True Love Never Did Run Smooth. But, Either It Was Different In Blood,- Or Else It Stood Upon The Choice Of Friends,- Or, If There Were A Sympathy In Choice, War, Death, Or Sickness Did Lay Siege To It.

At Christmas, I No More Desire A Rose.