And Fearless Minds Climb Soonest Unto Crowns.

Nay, We Must Think Men Are Not Gods, Nor Of Them Look For Such Observancy As Fits The Bridal.

I'll Say She Looks As Clear As Morning Roses Newly Washed With Dew.

I Do Desire We May Be Better Strangers.

Weep Not, Sweet Queen, For Trickling Tears Are Vain.

The Lunatic, The Lover, And The Poet, Are Of Imagination All Compact.