Listen To Many, Speak To A Few.

Therefore I Tell My Sorrows To The Stones; Who, Though They Cannot Answer My Distress, Yet In Some Sort They Are Better Than The Tribunes, For That They Will Not Intercept My Tale: When I Do Weep, They Humbly At My Feet Receive My Tears And Seem To Weep With Me; And, Were They But Attired In Grave Weeds, Rome Could Afford No Tribune Like To These.

Some Cupid Kills With Arrows, Some With Traps.

No, No, No, No! Come, Let's Away To Prison: We Two Alone Will Sing Like Birds I' The Cage: When Thou Dost Ask Me Blessing, I'll Kneel Down, And Ask Of Thee Forgiveness: So We'll Live, And Pray, And Sing, And Tell Old Tales, And Laugh At Gilded Butterflies, And Hear Poor Rogues Talk Of Court News; And We'll Talk With Them Too, Who Loses And Who Wins; Who's In, Who's Out; And Take Upon's The Mystery Of Things, As If We Were God's Spies: And We'll Wear Out, In A Wall'd Prison, Packs And Sects Of Great Ones, That Ebb And Flow By The Moon.

Man And Wife, Being Two, Are One In Love.

Farewell! A Long Farewell To All My Greatness!