He's A Soldier; And For One To

And The More Pity That Great Folk Should Have Count'nance In This World To Drown Or Hang Themselves More Than Their Even-christen.

The Rain, It Raineth Every Day.

Ask Me No Reason Why I Love You; For Though Love Use Reason For His Physician, He Admits Him Not For His Counsellor.

What Is More Miserable Than Discontent?

Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day? Thou Art More Lovely And More Temperate: Rough Winds Do Shake The Darling Buds Of May, And Summer's Lease Hath All Too Short A Date . . .