A Young Man Married Is A Man

Titus Andronicus, My Lord The Emperor Sends Thee This Word, That, If Thou Love Thy Sons, Let Marcus, Lucius, Or Thyself, Old Titus, Or Any One Of You, Chop Off Your Hand And Send It To The King: He For The Same Will Send Thee Hither Both Thy Sons Alive, And That Shall Be The Ransom For Their Fault.

At Christmas I No More Desire A Rose Than Wish A Snow In May's New-fangled Mirth; But Like Of Each Thing That In Season Grows.

What's Past And What's To Come Is Strew'd With Husks And Formless Ruin Of Oblivion.

Being Daily Swallowed By Men's Eyes, They Surfeited With Honey And Began To Loathe The Taste Of Sweetness, Whereof A Little More Than A Little Is By Much Too Much. So, When He Had Occasion To Be Seen, He Was But As The Cuckoo Is In June. Heard, Not Regarded.

Now Join Your Hands, And With Your Hands Your Hearts.