Swift As Shadow, Short As Any Dream

What? Do I Love Her, That I Desire To Hear Her Speak Again, And Feast Upon Her Eyes

After Life's Fitful Fever He Sleeps Well. Treason Has Done His Worst. Nor Steel Nor Poison, Malice Domestic, Foreign Levy, Nothing Can Touch Him Further.

They May Seize On The White Wonder Of Dear Juliet's Hand And Steal Immortal Blessing From Her Lips, Who, Even In Pure And Vestal Modesty, Still Blush, As Thinking Their Own Kisses Sin.

I Have Touched The Highest Point Of All My Greatness.

I Know A Bank Where The Wild Thyme Blows, Where Oxlips And The Nodding Violet Grows, Quite Over-canopied With Luscious Woodbine, With Sweet Musk-roses And With Eglantine.