Foul Whisp'rings Are Abroad.

For Sorrow Ends Not, When It Seemeth Done.

Refrain To-night; And That Shall Lend A Kind Of Easiness To The Next Abstinence, The Next More Easy; For Use Almost Can Change The Stamp Of Nature, And Either Master The Devil Or Throw Him Out With Wondrous Potency.

My Love Is As A Fever, Longing Still.

The Bitter Clamor Of Two Eager Tongues.

It Is Not In The Stars To Hold Our Destiny But In Ourselves.