A Maiden Hath No Tongue--but Thought.

Too Much Of Water Hast Thou, Poor Ophelia, And Therefore I Forbid My Tears: But Yet It Is Our Trick; Nature Her Custom Holds, Let Shame Say What It Will: When These Are Gone, The Woman Will Be Out. — Adieu, My Lord! I Have A Speech Of Fire, That Fain Would Blaze, But That This Folly Drowns It.

A Wicked Conscience Mouldeth Goblins Swift As Frenzy Thoughts.

Cold Indeed, And Labor Lost: Then Farewell Heat, And Welcome Frost!

So We'll Live, And Pray, And Sing, And Tell Old Tales, And Laugh At Gilded Butterflies.

The Gaudy, Blabbing, And Remorseful Day Is Crept Into The Bosom Of The Sea.