Suspicion Always Haunts The Guilty Mind.

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. . .

In Delay There Lies No Plenty.

Art Thou Not, Fatal Vision, Sensible To Feelings As To Sight?

Fairies Use Flowers For Their Charactery.

All's Well If All Ends Well.