The Moon, Like To A Silver Bow

I Will Not Be Sworn But Love May Transform Me To An Oyster

Thy Wish Was Father, Harry, To That Thought.

When We Our Betters See Bearing Our Woes, We Scarcely Think Our Miseries Our Foes.

We Are Such Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of.

Pastime Passing Excellent, If It He Husbanded With Modesty.