I Would Fain Die A Dry Death.

The Horn, The Horn, The Lusty Horn Is Not A Thing To Laugh To Scorn.

Thus Sometimes Hath The Brightest Day A Cloud; And After Summer Evermore Succeeds Barren Winter, With His Wrathful Nipping Cold: So Cares And Joys Abound, As Seasons Fleet.

There's Rosemary, That's For Remembrance. Pray You, Love, Remember.

We Must Love Men, Ere To Us They Will Seem Worthy Of Our Love.

My Heart Suspects More Than Mine Eye Can See.