Tear-falling Pity Dwells Not In This Eye.

That Thou Art Blamed Shall Not Be Thy Defect, For Slander's Mark Was Ever Yet The Fair; The Ornament Of Beauty Is Suspect, A Crow That Flies In Heaven's Sweetest Air.

O War! Thou Son Of Hell!

Think'st Thou It Honourable For A Noble Man Still To Remember Wrongs?

You Kiss By Th' Book.

I Hold Him But A Fool That Will Endanger His Body For A Girl That Loves Him Not.