Ay Me! Sad Hours Seem Long.

I Will Make Thee Think Thy Swan A Crow.

I Love Thee, I Love Thee With A Love That Shall Not Die. Till The Sun Grows Cold And The Stars Grow Old.

O, How Shall Summer's Honey Breath Hold Out Against The Wreckful Siege Of Battering Days, When Rocks Impregnable Are Not So Stout, Nor Gates Of Steel So Strong, But Time Decays?

In Brief, Sir, Study What You Most Affect.

And Thence From Athens Turn Away Our Eyes To Seek New Friends And Stranger Companies.