Love, Which Teacheth Me That Thou And

Foul Cankering Rust The Hidden Treasure Frets, But Gold That's Put To Use More Gold Begets.

What A Fool Honesty Is.

Would It Not Grieve A Woman To Be Over-mastered By A Piece Of Valiant Dust? To Make An Account Of Her Life To A Clod Of Wayward Marle?

Go Hang Yourself, You Naughty Mocking Uncle!

You Common Cry Of Curs! Whose Breath I Hate As Reek O' The Rotten Fens, Whose Loves I Prize As The Dead Carcasses Of Unburied Men That Do Corrupt My Air, I Banish You; And Here Remain With Your Uncertainty!