Thy Wit Is A Very Bitter Sweeting;

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

Better Three Hours Too Soon, Than One Hour To Late.

More Of Your Conversation Would Infect My Brain.

What E'er You Are That In This Desert Inaccessible, Under The Shade Of Melancholy Boughs, Lose And Neglect The Creeping Hours Of Time.

There Is Special Providence In The Fall Of A Sparrow.