Remembrance Of Things Past.

The Gates Of Monarchs Are Arched So High That Giants May Jet Through And Keep Their Impious Turbans On Without Good Morrow To The Sun.

To England Will I Steal, And There I'll Steal.

Remembrance Of Things Past.

O, Then, What Graces In My Love Do Dwell, That He Hath Turn'd A Heaven Unto Hell

All That Glisters Is Not Gold; Often Have You Heard That Told: Many A Man His Life Hath Sold But My Outside To Behold: Gilded Tombs Do Worms Enfold.