For In My Youth I Never Did

Fire That's Closest Kept Burns Most Of All.

Is This A Dagger Which I See Before Me, The Handle Toward My Hand?

But Love That Comes Too Late, Like A Remorseful Pardon Slowly Carried, To The Great Sender Turns A Sour Offense, Crying, 'that's Good That's Gone.

I Have No Other But A Woman's Reason: I Think Him So, Because I Think Him So.

Have You Not A Moist Eye, A Dry Hand, A Yellow Cheek, A White Beard, A Decreasing Leg, An Increasing Belly? Is Not Your Voice Broken, Your Wind Short, Your Chin Double, Your Wit Single, And Every Part About You Blasted With Antiquity?