Just Death, Kind Umpire Of Men's Miseries.

Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind Thou Art Not So Unkind, As Man's Ingratitude.

It Was Always Yet The Trick Of Our English Nation, If They Have A Good Thing, To Make It Too Common.

Come Away, Come Away, Death, And In Sad Cypres Let Me Be Laid; Fly Away, Fly Away, Breath; I Am Slain By A Fair Cruel Maid.

You Had Measured How Long A Fool You Were Upon The Ground.

Kindness In Women, Not Their Beauteous Looks, Shall Win My Love.