All Men's Faces Are True, Whatsome'er Their

Thanks To Men Of Noble Minds, Is Honorable Meed.

I Cannot, Nor I Will Not Hold Me Still; My Tongue, Though Not My Heart, Shall Have His Will.

I Know A Bank Where The Wild Thyme Blows, Where Oxlips And The Nodding Violet Grows, Quite Over-canopied With Luscious Woodbine, With Sweet Musk-roses And With Eglantine.

Who Is It That Can Tell Me Who I Am?

The Dullness Of The Fool Is The Whetstone Of The Wits.