O Fortune, Fortune! All Men Call Thee

I Pray You, Do Not Fall In Love With Me, For I Am Falser Than Vows Made In Wine.

Arise, Fair Sun, And Kill The Envious Moon, Who Is Already Sick And Pale With Grief That Thou, Her Maid, Art Far More Fair Than She. . . .

Go Wisely And Slowly. Those Who Rush Stumble And Fall.

O Sleep! O Gentle Sleep! Nature's Soft Nurse.

Thine Eyes I Love, And They As Pitying Me, Knowing Thy Heart Torment Me With Disdain, Have Put On Black, And Loving Mourners Be, Looking With Pretty Ruth Upon My Pain.