Heaven Truly Knows That Thou Art False

His Jest Will Savour But Of Shallow Wit, When Thousands Weep, More Than Did Laugh At It.

Look What Thy Soul Holds Dear, Imagine It To Lie That Way Thou Goest, Not Whence Thou Com'st. Suppose The Singing Birds Musicians, The Grass Whereon Thou Tread'st The Presence Strewed, The Flowers Fair Ladies, And Thy Steps No More Than A Delight Measure Or A Dance; For Gnarling Sorrow Hath Less Power To Bite The Man That Mocks At It And Sets It Light.

Demand Me Nothing: What You Know, You Know.

So Foul And Fair A Day I Have Not Seen.

Were't Not For Laughing, I Should Pity Him.