A Sympathy In Choice.

She Cannot Love, Nor Take No Shape Nor Project Or Affection, She Is So Self-endeared

True, I Talk Of Dreams, Which Are The Children Of An Idle Brain, Begot Of Nothing But Vain Fantasy.

O Heaven! Were Man, But Constant, He Were Perfect.

Take All The Swift Advantage Of The Hours.

He Is Dead And Gone, Lady, He Is Dead And Gone; At His Head A Grass-green Turf, At His Heels A Stone.