Where Souls Do Couch On Flowers We'll

I Will Make Thee Think Thy Swan A Crow.

Now Is The Winter Of Our Discontent.

Thus Sometimes Hath The Brightest Day A Cloud; And After Summer Evermore Succeeds Barren Winter, With His Wrathful Nipping Cold: So Cares And Joys Abound, As Seasons Fleet.

Adieu! I Have Too Grieved A Heart To Take A Tedious Leave.

Lord, Lord, How Subject We Old Men Are To This Vice Of Lying!