And Either Victory, Or Else A Grave.

This Thou Perceivest, Which Makes Thy Love More Strong, To Love That Well Which Thou Must Leave Ere Long

Death, That Hath Suck'd The Honey Of Thy Breath Hath Had No Power Yet Upon Thy Beauty.

Let Still Woman Take An Elder Than Herself: So Wears She To Him, So Sways She Level In Her Husband's Heart, For, Boy, However We Do Praise Ourselves, Our Fancies Are More Giddy And Unfirm, More Longing, Wavering, Sooner To Be Lost And Warn, Than Women's Are.

My Soul Is In The Sky.

My Nature Is Subdued To What It Works In, Like The Dyer's Hand.