Think'st Thou It Honourable For A Noble

Love Goes Toward Love.

The Poor World Is Almost Six Thousand Years Old, And In All This Time There Was Not Any Man Died In His Own Person, Videlicet, In A Love-cause.

A Man Cannot Make Him Laugh - But That's No Marvel; He Drinks No Wine.

They May Seize On The White Wonder Of Dear Juliet's Hand And Steal Immortal Blessing From Her Lips, Who, Even In Pure And Vestal Modesty, Still Blush, As Thinking Their Own Kisses Sin.

I Was Too Young That Time To Value Her, But Now I Know Her. If She Be A Traitor, Why, So Am I. We Still Have Slept Together, Rose At An Instant, Learned, Played, Eat Together, And Wheresoe'er We Went, Like Juno's Swans, Still We Went Coupled And Inseparable.