I Love Thee; None But Thee, And

To Some Kind Of Men Their Graces Serve Them But As Enemies.

Even Through The Hollow Eyes Of Death I Spy Life Peering.

Remembrance Of Things Past.

Not From The Stars Do I My Judgement Pluck, And Yet Methinks I Have Astronomy. But Not To Tell Of Good Or Evil Luck, Of Plagues, Of Dearths, Or Season's Quality; Nor Can I Fortune To Brief Minutes Tell ... Or Say With Princes If It Shall Go Well.

Report Of Fashions In Proud Italy Whose Manners Still Our Tardy-apish Nation Limps After In Base Imitation