Thou Art A Castilian King Urinal!

Ten Masts Make Not The Altitude Which Thou Hast Perpendicularly Fell. Thy Life's A Miracle.

Our Remedies Oft In Ourselves Do Lie, Which We Ascribe To Heaven.

When You Do Dance, I Wish You A Wave O' The Sea, That You Might Ever Do Nothing But That.

O, What A World Of Vile Ill-favored Faults, Looks Handsome In Three Hundred Pounds A Year!

Under The Colour Of Commending Him I Have Access My Own Love To Prefer; But Silvia Is Too Fair, Too True, Too Holy, To Be Corrupted With My Worthless Gifts.