If Music Be The Food Of Love,

The Weakest Kind Of Fruit Drops Earliest To The Ground.

I Loved Ophelia. Forty Thousand Brothers Could Not, With All Their Quantity Of Love, Make Up My Sum.

Present Fears Are Less Than Horrible Imaginings.

This England Never Did, Nor Never Shall, Lie At The Proud Foot Of A Conqueror, But When It First Did Help To Wound Itself. Now These Her Princes Are Come Home Again, Come The Three Corners Of The World In Arms, And We Shall Shock Them. Nought Shall Make Us Rue, If England To Itself Do Rest But True.

I Cannot Draw A Cart, Nor Eat Dried Oats; If It Be Man's Work, I'll Do't.