I Must Be Gone And Live, Or

If You Can Look Into The Seeds Of Time, And Say Which Grain Will Grow And Which Will Not, Speak Then Unto Me.

That Which Is Now A Horse, Even With A Thought The Rack Dislimms, And Makes It Indistinct As Water Is In Water

When A Wise Man Gives Thee Better Counsel, Give Me Mine Again.

Thy Wit Is A Very Bitter Sweeting; It Is A Most Sharp Sauce.

Oh, Injurious Love, That Respites Me A Life, Whose Very Comfort Is Still A Dying Horror