We Are Time's Subjects, And Time Bids

Go, Write It In A Martial Hand; Be Curst And Brief; It Is No Matter How Witty, So It Be Eloquent And Fun Of Invention: Taunt Him With The Licence Of Ink: If Thou Thou'st Him Some Thrice, It Shall Not Be Amiss; And As Many Lies As Will Lie In Thy Shee.

Against Ill Chances Men Are Ever Merry, But Heaviness Foreruns The Good Event.

Now All The Youth Of England Are On Fire, And Silken Dalliance In The Wardrobe Lies; Now Thrive The Armorers, And Honor's Thought Reigns Solely In The Breast Of Every Man.

I'll Note You In My Book Of Memory.

I Hold Him But A Fool That Will Endanger His Body For A Girl That Loves Him Not.