No, I Will Be The Pattern Of

I 'gin To Be Aweary Of The Sun, And Wish Th' Estate O' Th' World Were Now Undone.

Love Does Not See With The Eyes, But With The Soul.

Now 'tis Spring, And Weeds Are Shallow-rooted; Suffer Them Now And They'll O'ergrow The Garden.

When To The Sessions Of Sweet Silent Thought I Summon Up Remembrance Of Things Past, I Sigh The Lack Of Many A Thing I Sought.

It Is Not Vain Glory For A Man And His Glass To Confer In His Own Chamber.