With Mirth In Funeral And With Dirge

Let Me Tell You, Cassius, You Yourself Are Much Condemned To Have An Itching Palm.

Where Art Thou, Muse, That Thou Forget'st So Long / To Speak Of That Which Gives Thee All Thy Might?

Let Me Confess That We Two Must Be Twain, Although Our Undivided Loves Are One.

I Am A True Laborer: I Earn That I Eat, Get That I Wear, Owe No Man Hate, Envy No Man's Happiness, Glad Of Other Men's Good, Content With My Harm.

How Hard It Is To Hide The Sparks Of Nature!