A Violet In The Youth Of Primy

All Days Are Nights To See Till I See Thee, And Nights Bright Days When Dreams Do Show Thee Me.

Your Cause Of Sorrow Must Not Be Measured By His Worth, For Then It Hath No End.

Rest You Fair, Good Signior; Your Worship Was The Last Man In Our Mouths.

Light Vanity, Insatiate Cormorant, Consuming Means, Soon Preys Upon Itself.

Four Days Will Quickly Steep Themselves In Nights; Four Nights Will Quickly Dream Away The Time; And Then The Moon, Like To A Silver Bow New Bent In Heaven, Shall Behold The Night Of Our Solemnities.