Sweets Grown Common Lose Their Dear Delight.

But Clay And Clay Differs In Dignity, Whose Dust Is Both Alike.

Cease Thy Counsel, For Thy Words Fall Into My Ears As Priceless As Water Into A Seive.

I Have Nothing Of Woman In Me; Now From Head To Foot I Am Marble-constant.

This Passion, And The Death Of A Dear Friend, Would Go Near To Make A Man Look Sad.

She Shall Scant Show Well That Now Shows Best.