Were All The Letters Sun, I Could

Are You Sure/that We Are Awake? It Seems To Me/that Yet We Sleep, We Dream

The Quality Of Nothing Hath Not Such Need To Hide Itself

So Weary With Disasters, Tugg'd With Fortune, That I Would Set My Life On Any Chance, To Mend, Or Be Rid On't.

Time Is The Nurse And Breeder Of All Good.

Foul Whisperings Are Abroad