How Lush And Lusty The Grass Looks!

But, Soft! What Light Through Yonder Window Breaks? It Is The East, And Juliet Is The Sun. Arise, Fair Sun, And Kill The Envious Moon, Who Is Already Sick And Pale With Grief, That Thou, Her Maid, Art Far More Fair Than She. Be Not Her Maid, Since She Is Envious; Her Vestal Livery Is But Sick And Green And None But Fools Do Wear It; Cast It Off. It Is My Lady, O, It Is My Love! Oh, That She Knew She Were!

Thou Ever Young, Fresh, Lov'd, And Delicate Wooer, Whose Blush Doth Thaw The Consecrated Snow

Discharge My Followers; Let Them Hence Away, From Richard's Night To Bolingbrooke's Fair Day.

If The Masses Can Love Without Knowing Why, They Also Hate Without Much Foundation.

What Else May Hap, To Time I Will Commit.