Modest Wisdom Plucks Me From Over-credulous Haste.

The Tempter Or The Tempted, Who Sins Most? Ha! Not She: Nor Doth She Tempt: But It Is I That, Lying By The Violet In The Sun, Do As The Carrion Does, Not As The Flower, Corrupt With Virtuous Season.

Come, Lady, Die To Live.

Bosom Upon My Counsel; You'll Find It Wholesome.

Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

Why, What's The Matter, That You Have Such A February Face, So Full Of Frost, Of Storm And Cloudiness?