O That A Lady, Of One Man

Rich Honesty Dwells Like A Miser, Sir, In A Poor House; As Your Pearl In Your Foul Oyster.

I Pray You, In Your Letters, When You Shall These Unlucky Deeds Relate, Speak Of Me As I Am; Nothing Extenuate, Nor Set Down Aught In Malice. Then Must You Speak Of One That Loved Not Wisely But Too Well; Of One Not Easily Jealous, But Being Wrought, Perplexed In The Extreme. . .

Every Fair From Fair Sometime Declines

Great Men May Jest With Saints; 'tis Wit In Them; But, In The Less Foul Profanation.

I Am Not Merry, But I Do Beguile The Thing I Am By Seeming Otherwise.