For She Had Eyes And Chose Me.

O Most Delicate Fiend! Who Is't Can Read A Woman? Is There More?

Lords, I Protest My Soul Is Full Of Woe That Blood Should Sprinkle Me To Make Me Grow. Come, Mourn With Me For What I Do Lament, And Put Sullen Black Incontinent. I'll Make A Voyage To The Holy Land To Wash This Blood Off From My Guilty Hand. March Sadly After. Grace My Mournings Here In Weeping After This Untimely Bier.

To Me, Fair Friend, You Never Can Be Old, For As You Were When First Your Eye I Ey'd, Such Seems Your Beauty Still.

If I Be Waspish, Best Beware My Sting.

A Grandma's Name Is Little Less In Love Than Is The Doting Title Of A Mother.