Thou Ominous And Fearful Owl Of Death.

But Love Is Blind And Lovers Cannot See

Honest Plain Words Best Pierce The Ear Of Grief.

What Light Through Yonder Window Breaks?

The Rain, It Raineth Every Day.

True, I Talk Of Dreams, Which Are The Children Of An Idle Brain, Begot Of Nothing But Vain Fantasy, Which Is As Thin Of Substance As The Air, And More Inconstant Than The Wind, Who Woos Even Now The Frozen Bosom Of The North, And, Being Anger'd, Puffs Away From Thence, Turning His Side To The Dew-dropping South.