Your Date Is Better In Your Pie

She Never Told Her Love, But Let Concealment, Like A Worm 'i Th' Bud, Feed On Her Damask Cheek. She Pinned In Thought; And, With A Green And Yellow Melancholy, She Sat Like Patience On A Monument, Smiling At Grief. Was Not This Love Indeed? We Men May Say More, Swear More; But Indeed Our Shows Are More Than Will; For We Still Prove Much In Our Vows But Little In Our Love.

Assume A Virtue If You Have It Not.

If Music Be The Food Of Love, Play On.

Bondage Is Hoarse, And May Not Speak Aloud.

Tomorrow, And Tomorrow, And Tomorrow,creeps In This Petty Pace From Day To Day