A Maiden Hath No Tongue--but Thought.

My Way Of Life Is Fall'n Into The Sear And Yellow Leaf.

Thus Conscience Does Make Cowards Of Us All; And Thus The Native Hue Of Resolution Is Slicked O'er With The Pale Cast Of Thought

Nothing Can Seem Foul To Those Who Win.

Tis Much When Sceptres Are In Children's Hands, But More When Envy Breeds Unkind Division: There Comes The Ruin, There Begins Confusion.

And Therefore Is Love Said To Be A Child, Because In Choice He Is So Oft Beguil'd