But Like Of Each Thing That In

Thou Weedy Elf-skinned Canker-blossom!

Poor Wretches That Depend On Greatness' Favor, Dream As I Have Done; Wake, And Find Nothing.

The Hind That Would Be Mated By The Lion Must Die For Love.

As Chaste As Is The Bud Ere It Be Blown.

Come Now, What Masques, What Dances Shall We Have To Wear Away This Long Age Of Three Hours Between Our After-supper And Bedtime?