Put Forth Thy Hand, Reach At The

My Mistress' Eyes Are Nothing Like The Sun

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

Who Is Silvia What Is She, That All Our Swains Commend Her Holy, Fair, And Wise Is She.

Hamlet: Is This A Prologue, Or The Posy Of A Ring? Ophelia: 'tis Brief, My Lord. Hamlet: As Woman's Love.

You See Me Here, You Gods, A Poor Old Man, As Full Of Grief As Age; Wretched In Both.