I Would Fain Die A Dry Death.

The Horn, The Horn, The Lusty Horn Is Not A Thing To Laugh To Scorn.

For Where Is Any Author In The World Teaches Such Beauty As A Woman's Eye?

What Thing, In Honor, Had My Father Lost, That Need To Be Revived And Breathed In Me?

Policy Sits Above Conscience.

If Ever Thou Shalt Love, In The Sweet Pangs Of It Remember Me; For Such As I Am All True Lovers Are, Unstaid And Skittish In All Motions Else Save In The Constant Image Of The Creature That Is Beloved.