Weep I Cannot; But My Heart Bleeds.

Princes Have But Their Titles For Their Glories, An Outward Honor For An Inward Toil; And, For Unfelt Imaginations, They Often Feel A World Of Restless Cares.

Holy, Fair, And Wise Is She; The Heaven Such Grace Did Lend Her, That She Might Admired Be.

The Tongues Of Mocking Wenches Are As Keen As Is The Razor's Edge Invisible.

I Am That Merry Wanderer Of The Night.

You Abilities Are Too Infant-like For Doing Much Alone.