The Bashful Virgin's Sidelong Looks Of Love,

The Ides Of March Are Come. Soothsayer: Ay, Caesar; But Not Gone.

I Am Not Mad; I Would To Heaven I Were! For Then, 'tis Like I Should Forget Myself; O, If I Could, What Grief Should I Forget!

I And My Bosom Must Debate Awhile, And Then I Would No Other Company.

Women Are Angels, Wooing: Things Won Are Done; Joy's Soul Lies In The Doing: That She Beloved Knows Naught, That Knows Not This-- Men Prize The Thing Ungained More Than It Is.

Ready To Go But Never To Return.