Yon Grey Lines That Fret The Clouds

Our Very Eyes Are Sometimes, Like Our Judgments, Blind.

O, Here Will I Set Up My Everlasting Rest And Shake The Yoke Of Inauspicious Stars From The World-wearied Flesh

Finish, Good Lady; The Bright Day Is Done, And We Are For The Dark.

My Heart Is Turned To Stone; I Strike It, And It Hurts My Hand.

Time Shall Unfold What Plaited Cunning Hides: Who Cover Faults, At Last Shame Them Derides.