I Will Be Brief. Your Noble Son

One Whom The Music Of His Own Vain Tongue Doth Ravish Like Enchanting Harmony.

How Long A Time Lies In One Little Word?

Let Me Not Live, After My Flame Lacks Oil, To Be The Snuff Of Younger Spirits.

If't Be Summer News, Smile To't Before; If Winterly, Thou Need'st But Keep That Count'nance Still.

Why, I Can Smile And Murder Whiles I Smile, And Cry 'content' To That Which Grieves My Heart, And Wet My Cheeks With Artificial Tears, And Frame My Face For All Occasions