By Being Seldom Seen, I Could Not

Good Morrow, Fair Ones; Pray You, If You Know, Where In The Purlieus Of This Forest Stands A Sheep-cote Fenc'd About With Olive Trees?

The Poor World Is Almost Six Thousand Years Old, And In All This Time There Was Not Any Man Died In His Own Person, Videlicet, In A Love-cause.

Frailty, Thy Name Is Woman!

Even Through The Hollow Eyes Of Death I Spy Life Peering.

Golden Lads And Girls All Must As Chimney Sweepers Come To Dust.