Summer's Lease Hath All Too Short A

I Were Better To Be Eaten To Death With A Rust Than To Be Scoured To Nothing With Perpetual Motion.

It Hurts Not The Tongue To Give Fair Words.

Love Is My Sin, And Thy Dear Virtue Hate, Hate Of My Sin, Grounded On Sinful Loving.

Some Smack Of Age In You, Some Relish Of The Saltness Of Time.

He Receives Comfort Like Cold Porridge.