Go To You Bosom: Knock There, And

Every Why Hath A Wherefore.

I Had Rather Chop This Hand Off At A Blow, And With The Other Fling It At Thy Face.

My Stars Shine Darkly Over Me

If Ever Thou Shalt Love, In The Sweet Pangs Of It Remember Me; For Such As I Am All True Lovers Are, Unstaid And Skittish In All Motions Else Save In The Constant Image Of The Creature That Is Beloved.

O, Pardon Me, Thou Bleeding Piece Of Earth, / That I Am Meek And Gentle With These Butchers!