Oh, Flatter Me; For Love Delights In

I'll Read Enough When I Do See The Very Book Indeed Where All My Sins Are Writ, And That's Myself.

Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day?

I Am Thy Father's Spirit; Doom'd For A Certain Term To Walk The Night And, For The Day, Confin'd To Fast In Fires, Till The Foul Crimes, Done In My Days Of Nature, Are Burnt And Purg'd Away.

Opinion Crowns With An Imperial Voice.

So Many Miseries Have Craz'd My Voice, That My Woe-wearied Tongue Is Still And Mute.