When Great Leaves Fall, The Winter Is

Death, That Hath Suck'd The Honey Of Thy Breath Hath Had No Power Yet Upon Thy Beauty.

Things Base And Vile, Holding No Quantity, Love Can Transpose To Form And Dignity

Your Lordship, Though Not Clean Past Your Youth, Have Yet Some Smack Of Age In You, Some Relish Of The Saltiness Of Time.

Good Morrow, Fair Ones; Pray You, If You Know, Where In The Purlieus Of This Forest Stands A Sheep-cote Fenc'd About With Olive Trees?

Thus Weary Of The World, Away She Hies, And Yokes Her Silver Doves; By Whose Swift Aid Their Mistress Mounted Through The Empty Skies In Her Light Chariot Quickly Is Convey'd; Holding Their Course To Paphos, Where Their Queen Means To Immure Herself And Not Be Seen.