My Love Admits No Qualifying Dross

I Understand A Fury In Your Words But Not Your Words.

This Music Crept By Me Upon The Waters, Allaying Both Their Fury And My Passion With Its Sweet Air: Thence I Have Follow’d It.

The Bird That Hath Been Limed In A Bush, With Trembling Wings Misdoubteth Every Bush.

They Are Fairies; He That Speaks To Them Shall Die. I'll Wink And Couch; No Man Their Works Must Eye.

Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day?