The Patient Must Minister To Himself

Daffodils, That Come Before The Swallow Dares, And Take The Winds Of March With Beauty.

But, Soft! What Light Through Yonder Window Breaks? It Is The East, And Juliet Is The Sun. Arise, Fair Sun, And Kill The Envious Moon, Who Is Already Sick And Pale With Grief, That Thou, Her Maid, Art Far More Fair Than She. Be Not Her Maid, Since She Is Envious; Her Vestal Livery Is But Sick And Green And None But Fools Do Wear It; Cast It Off. It Is My Lady, O, It Is My Love! Oh, That She Knew She Were!

But When The Fox Hath Once Got In His Nose, He'll Soon Find Means To Make The Body Follow.

Come Not Within The Measure Of My Wrath.

My Affection Hath An Unknown Bottom, Like The Bay Of Portugal.