Many That Are Not Mad Have, Sure,

Let's Take The Instant By The Forward Top; For We Are Old, And On Our Quick'st Decrees The Inaudible And Noiseless Foot Of Time Steals Ere We Can Effect Them.

What? Do I Love Her, That I Desire To Hear Her Speak Again, And Feast Upon Her Eyes

Time Shall Unfold What Plaited Cunning Hides: Who Cover Faults, At Last Shame Them Derides.

Wrong Hath But Wrong, And Blame The Due Of Blame.

At Christmas, I No More Desire A Rose.