I Am A Feather For Each Wind

True, I Talk Of Dreams, Which Are The Children Of An Idle Brain, Begot Of Nothing But Vain Fantasy, Which Is As Thin Of Substance As The Air, And More Inconstant Than The Wind, Who Woos Even Now The Frozen Bosom Of The North, And, Being Anger'd, Puffs Away From Thence, Turning His Side To The Dew-dropping South.

I Will Go Wash; And When My Face Is Fair, You Shall Perceive Whether I Blush Or No.

We That Are True Lovers Run Into Strange Capers.

Grace Me No Grace, Nor Uncle Me No Uncle; I Am No Traitor's Uncle, And That Word "grace" In An Ungracious Mouth Is But Profane.

True Hope Is Swift, And Flies With Swallow's Wings.