Come Not Within The Measure Of My

O Excellent! I Love Long Life Better Than Figs.

O, Let My Books Be Then The Eloquence And Dumb Presages Of My Speaking Breast.

If Music Be The Food Of Love, Play On, Give Me Excess Of It; That Surfeiting, The Appetite May Sicken, And So Die.

Come, Lady, Die To Live.

Spirits Are Not Finely Touched But To Fine Issues.