The Wound Of Peace Is Surety, Surety

Then Know, That I Have Little Wealth To Lose. A Man I Am, Crossed With Adversity; My Riches Are These Poor Habiliments, Of Which If You Should Here Disfurnish Me, You Take The Sum And Substance That I Have.

Good Morrow, 'tis Saint Valentine's Day, All In The Morn Betime, And I A Maid At Your Window, To Be Your Valentine.

Silence Is The Perfectest Herault Of Joy. I Were But Little Happy If I Could Say How Much.

This Senior-junior, Giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid; Regent Of Love-rhymes, Lord Of Folded Arms, The Anointed Sovereign Of Sighs And Groans, Liege Of All Loiterers And Malcontents.

And Thence From Athens Turn Away Our Eyes To Seek New Friends And Stranger Companies.