When We Our Betters See Bearing Our

I Am Not Prone To Weeping As Our Sex Commonly Are; The Want Of Which Vain Dew Perchance Shall Dry Your Pities; But I Have That Honorable Grief Lodged Here Which Burns Worse Than Tears Drown.

To Mingle Friendship Far Is Mingling Bloods.

Speak, What Trade Art Thou? Why, Sir, A Carpenter. Where Is Thy Leather Apron And Thy Rule? What Does Thou With Thy Best Apparel On?

O That A Lady, Of One Man Refused, Should Of Another Therefore Be Abused!

When Death Doth Close His Tender Dying Eyes.