Yet Do I Fear Thy Nature; It

A Thousand Kisses Buys My Heart From Me; And Pay Them At Thy Leisure, One By One.

I Know A Lady In Venice Would Have Walked Barefoot To Palestine For A Touch Of His Nether Lip

Rumor Is A Pipe Blown By Surmises, Jealousies, Conjectures.

Thou Art A Slave, Whom Fortune's Tender Arm With Favour Never Clasp'd; But Bred A Dog.

Had I But Died An Hour Before This Chance, I Had Liv'd A Blessed Time; For, From This Instant, There's Nothing Serious In Mortality: All Is But Toys; Renown, And Grace Is Dead; The Wine Of Life Is Drawn, And The Mere Lees Is Left This Vault To Brag Of.