Dost Thou Love Hawking? Thou Hast Hawks

Come, Lady, Die To Live.

Every Fair From Fair Sometime Declines

How Sweet The Moonlight Sleeps Upon This Bank Here We Will Sit, And Let The Sounds Of Music Creep In Our Ears; Soft Stillness, And The Night Become The Touches Of Sweet Harmony

Better Conquest Never Canst Thou Make Than Arm Thy Constant And Thy Nobler Parts Against Giddy, Loose Suggestions.

Have More Than You Show, Speak Less Than You Know.