At Christmas, I No More Desire A

Poor Wretches That Depend On Greatness' Favor, Dream As I Have Done; Wake, And Find Nothing.

Man And Wife, Being Two, Are One In Love.

Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day? Thou Art More Lovely And More Temperate: Rough Winds Do Shake The Darling Buds Of May, And Summer's Lease Hath All Too Short A Date . . .

Alas, Their Love May Be Call'd Appetite. No Motion Of The Liver, But The Palate

This World To Me Is Like A Lasting Storm,whirring Me From My Friends.