Men's Faults Do Seldom To Themselves Appear.

Why Then, O Brawling Love! O Loving Hate! O Any Thing, Of Nothing First Create! O Heavy Lightness, Serious Vanity, Misshapen Chaos Of Well-seeming Forms, Feather Of Lead, Bright Smoke, Cold Fire, Sick Health, Still-waking Sleep, That Is Not What It Is! This Love Feel I, That Feel No Love In This.

Better Conquest Never Canst Thou Make Than Arm Thy Constant And Thy Nobler Parts Against Giddy, Loose Suggestions.

She Lov'd Me For The Dangers I Had Pass'd, And I Lov'd Her That She Did Pity Them

A Very Ancient And Fish-like Smell.

Virtue Itself Turns Vice, Being Misapplied, And Vice Sometime By Action Dignified.