My Love's More Richer Than My Tongue.

If Thou Art Rich, Thou Art Poor; For, Like An Ass, Whose Back With Ingots Bows, Thou Bearest Thy Heavy Riches But A Journey, And Death Unloads Thee.

Truly The Souls Of Men Are Full Of Dread: Ye Cannot Reason Almost With A Man That Looks Not Heavily And Full Of Fear.

The Play's The Thing.

Now, My Masters, Happy Man Be His Dole, Say I; Every Man To His Business.

Give Me My Robe, Put On My Crown; I Have Immortal Longings In Me.