The Ostentation Of Our Love, Which, Left

In Sooth I Know Not Why I Am So Sad. It Wearies Me, You Say It Wearies You; But How I Caught It, Found It, Or Came By It, What Stuff 'tis Made Of, Whereof It Is Born, I Am To Learn.

There Was Never Yet Philosopher That Could Endure The Toothache Patiently

Short Time Seems Long In Sorrow's Sharp Sustaining.

O, Here Will I Set Up My Everlasting Rest And Shake The Yoke Of Inauspicious Stars From The World-wearied Flesh

Woe To That Land That's Governed By A Child.