Let Me Not To The Marriage Of

You'd Be So Lean, That Blast Of January Would Blow You Through And Through. Now, My Fair'st Friend, I Would I Had Some Flowers O' The Spring That Might Become Your Time Of Day.

A Very Scurvy Fellow.

Do All Men Kill The Things They Do Not Love?

Opinion, A Sovereign Mistress Of Effects.

O World, How Apt The Poor Are To Be Proud!