A Poor Thing, Perhaps, But My Own.

The Fear's As Bad As Falling.

I Desire You In Friendship, And I Will One Way Or Other Make You Amends.

Arise, Fair Sun, And Kill The Envious Moon, Who Is Already Sick And Pale With Grief That Thou, Her Maid, Art Far More Fair Than She. . . .

As You From Crimes Would Pardon'd Be, Let Your Indulgence Set Me Free.

Why, Then The World ’s Mine Oyster, Which I With Sword Will Open.