You Take My Life When You Do

Glory Is Like A Circle In The Water, Which Never Ceaseth To Enlarge Itself, Till, By Broad Spreading, It Disperse To Naught.

To Gild Refined Gold, To Paint The Lily... Is Wasteful And Ridiculous Excess

I Had Rather Be A Kitten, And Cry Mew, Than One Of These Same Meeter Ballad-mongers: I Had Rather Heare A Brazen Candlestick Turn'd, Or A Dry Wheele Grate On The Axle-tree, And That Would Set My Teeth Nothing An Edge, Nothing So Much, As Mincing Poetrie.

Gentle And Low, An Excellent Thing In Woman.

Well-apparel'd April On The Heel Of Limping Winter Treads.