Love Looks Not With The Eyes, But

In Sweet Music Is Such Art: Killing Care And Grief Of Heart Fall Asleep, Or Hearing, Die.

To Thine Own Self Be True, And It Must Follow, As The Night The Day, Thou Canst Not Then Be False To Any Man.

Let The Galled Jade Wince; Our Withers Are Unwrung.

Let Me Embrace Thee, Sour Adversity, For Wise Men Say It Is The Wisest Course.

The Sands Are Number'd That Make Up My Life; Here Must I Stay, And Here My Life Must End.