When That Churl Death My Bones With

Now Would I Give A Thousand Furlongs Of Sea For An Acre Of Barren Ground.

Nothing 'gainst Times Scythe Can Make Defence.

If Thou Remeber'st Not The Slightest Folly That Ever Love Did Make Thee Run Into, Thou Hast Not Lov'd

There's A Divinity That Shapes Our Ends, Rough-hew Them How We Will.

Hereafter, In A Better World Than This, I Shall Desire More Love And Knowledge Of You