Thou Art A Castilian King Urinal!

Fools Are Not Mad Folks.

What's To Come Is Still Unsure: In Delay There Lies No Plenty; Then Come Kiss Me, Sweet And Twenty, Youth's A Stuff Will Not Endure.

This Blessèd Plot, This Earth, This Realm, This England This Nurse, This Teeming Womb Of Royal Kings, . . . This Land Of Such Dear Souls, This Dear Dear Land.

Good God, The Souls Of All My Tribe Defend From Jealousy!

You'd Be So Lean, That Blast Of January Would Blow You Through And Through. Now, My Fair'st Friend, I Would I Had Some Flowers O' The Spring That Might Become Your Time Of Day.