This Fell Sergeant, Death, Is Strict In

Whose Heart The Accustom'd Sight Of Death Makes Hard.

The Quality Of Nothing Hath Not Such Need To Hide Itself

If Yon Bethink Yourself Of Any Crime Unreconcil'd As Yet To Heaven And Grace, Solicit For It Straight.

Show Me A Mistress That Is Passing Fair, What Doth Her Beauty Serve But As A Note Where I May Read Who Pass'd That Passing Fair?

What, Shall One Of Us, That Struck For The Foremost Man Of All This World But For Supporting Robbers--shall We Now Contaminate Our Fingers With Base Bribes, And Sell The Mighty Space Of Our Large Honors For So Much Trash As May Be Grasped Thus?