Good Hay, Sweet Hay, Hath No Fellow.

How Is It That The Clouds Still Hang On You?

You Lack The Season Of All Natures, Sleep.

My Master Hath Been An Honorable Gentleman; Tricks He Hath Had In Him Which Gentlemen Have.

For I Have Sworn Thee Fair, And Thought Thee Bright, Who Art As Black As Hell, As Dark As Night.

Better A Witty Fool Than A Foolish Wit.