I Have No Other But A Woman's

Life Is As Tedious As Twice-told Tale, Vexing The Dull Ear Of A Drowsy Man.

Foul Words Is But Foul Wind, And Foul Wind Is But Foul Breath, And Foul Breath Is Noisome; Therefore I Will Depart Unkissed.

Conceit, More Rich In Matter Than In Words, Brags Of His Substance, Not Of Ornament: They Are But Beggars That Can Count Their Worth; But My True Love Is Grown To Such Excess, I Cannot Sum Up Half My Sum Of Wealth.

Let Him Smell His Way To Dover!

If Fortune Torments Me, Hope Contents Me.