All Is Well Ended, If The Suit

Great Griefs Medicine The Less.

My Love's More Richer Than My Tongue.

But Whate'er I Am, Nor I Nor Any Man That But Man Is, With Nothing Shall Be Pleased 'til He Be Eased With Being Nothing.

The Deep Of Night Is Crept Upon Our Talk, And Nature Must Obey Necessity.

I Know A Place Where The Wild Thyme Blows, Where Oxlips And The Nodding Violet Grows.