The Wound Of Peace Is Surety, Surety

Sit By My Side, And Let The World Slip: We Shall Ne'er Be Younger.

What, Keep A Week Away? Seven Days And Nights, Eightscore-eight Hours, And Lovers' Absent Hours More Tedious Than The Dial Eightscore Times! O Weary Reckoning!

Gold Were As Good As Twenty Orators.

Is It Possible That Love Should Of A Sudden Take Such A Hold?

Be Wise As Thou Art Cruel, Do Not Press My Tongue-tied Patience With Too Much Disdain: Lest Sorrow Lend Me Words And Words Express, The Manner Of My Pity-wanting Pain.