Vaulting Ambition, Which O'erleaps Itself And Falls

Sir, The Year Growing Ancient, Not Yet On Summer's Death Nor On The Birth Of Trembling Winter, The Fairest Flowers O' Th' Season Are Our Carnations And Streaked Gillyvors, Which Some Call Nature's Bastards.

Join Not With Grief, Fair Woman, Do Not So, To Make My End Too Sudden.

If Music Be The Food Of Love, Play On.

Though It Make The Unskillful Laugh, Cannot But Make The Judicious Grieve.

I Do Know When The Blood Burns, How Prodigal The Soul Lends The Tongue Vows.