Your Face Is A Book, Where Men

I Could A Tale Unfold Whose Lightest Word Would Harrow Up Thy Soul, Freeze Thy Young Blood, Make Thy Two Eyes Like Stars Start From Their Spheres, Thy Knotted And Combined Locks To Part, And Each Particular Hair To Stand On End Like Quills Upon The Fretful Porpentine. But This Eternal Blazon Must Not Be To Ears Of Flesh And Blood. List, List, O List!

Swift As Shadow, Short As Any Dream

Life Every Man Holds Dear; But The Dear Man Holds Honor Far More Precious Dear Than Life.

For Thy Sweet Love Remember'd Such Wealth Brings That Then I Scorn To Change My State With Kings.

I Am But Mad North-north-west. When The Wind Is Southerly, I Know A Hawk From A Handsaw.