Some Cupid Kills With Arrows, Some With

I Am Not Prone To Weeping As Our Sex Commonly Are; The Want Of Which Vain Dew Perchance Shall Dry Your Pities; But I Have That Honorable Grief Lodged Here Which Burns Worse Than Tears Drown.

Upon His Royal Face There Is No Note How Dread An Army Hath Enrounded Him.

O Powerful Love, That In Some Respects Makes A Beast A Man, In Some Other, A Man A Beast.

There Are More Things In Heaven And Earth, Horatio, Than Are Dreamt Of In Your Philosophy.

O, Speak Again, Bright Angel! For Thou Art As Glorious To This Night, Being O'er My Head As Is A Winged Messenger Of Heaven