My Soul Is In The Sky.

Ruin Has Taught Me To Ruminate, That Time Will Come And Take My Love Away. This Thought Is As A Death, Which Cannot Choose But Weep To Have That Which It Fears To Lose.

At Christmas I No More Desire A Rose Than Wish A Snow In May's New-fangled Mirth; But Like Of Each Thing That In Season Grows.

The Purest Treasure Mortal Times Can Afford Is A Spotless Reputation.

Miracles Are Ceased; And Therefore We Must Needs Admit The Means, How Things Are Perfected.

The Play's The Thing, Wherein I'll Catch The Conscience Of The King.