Why, Look You, I Am Whipp'd And

Look On Beauty, And You Shall See 'tis Purchased By The Weight.

Though Yet Of Hamlet Our Dear Brother's Death The Memory Be Green.

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

All The Contagion Of The South Light On You, You Shames Of Rome! You Herd Of--boils And Plagues Plaster You O'er; That You May Be Abhorr'd Further Than Seen, And One Infect Another Against The Wind A Mile!

For Though The Camomile, The More It Is Trodden On The Faster It Grows, Yet Youth, The More It Is Wasted, The Sooner It Wears.