I Will Make A Star-chamber Matter Of

I Stalk About Her Door, Like A Strange Soul Upon The Stygian Banks Staying For Waftage.

You Have Dancing Shoes With Nimble Soles. I Have A Soul Of Lead.

A Pox O’ Your Throat, You Bawling, Blasphemous, Incharitable Dog!

The Gloomy Shade Of Death.

I, Measuring His Affections By My Own, Which Then Most Sought Where Most Might Not Be Found, Being One Too Many By My Weary Self, Pursued My Humor Not Pursuing His, And Gladly Shunned Who Gladly Fled From Me.