I Myself Am Best When Least In

Dost Thou Love Hawking? Thou Hast Hawks Will Soar Above The Morning Lark.

Is There No Pity Sitting In The Clouds That Sees Into The Bottom Of My Grief? O Sweet My Mother, Cast Me Not Away! Delay This Marriage For A Month, A Week, Or If You Do Not, Make The Bridal Bed In That Dim Monument Where Tybalt Lies.

What, Gone Without A Word? Ay, So True Love Should Do; It Cannot Speak, For Truth Hath Better Deeds Than Words To Grace It.

Yield Not Thy Neck To Fortunes Yoke, But Let Thy Dauntless Mind Still Ride In Triumph Over All Mischance.

He That Loves To Be Flattered Is Worthy O' The Flatterer.