Ay, But To Die, And Go We

The Tyrant Custom, Most Grave Senators, Hath Made The Flinty And Steel Couch Of War My Thrice-driven Bed Of Down.

Love Will Not Be Spurred To What It Loathes

Let Me Not To The Marriage Of True Minds

My Thought, Whose Murder Yet Is But Fantastical, Shakes So My Single State Of Man That Function Is Smothered In Surmise, And Nothing Is But What Is Not.

The Brightness Of Her Cheek Would Shame Those Stars As Daylight Doth A Lamp; Her Eyes In Heaven Would Through The Airy Region Stream So Bright That Birds Would Sing, And Think It Were Not Night.