Upon His Royal Face There Is No

To Hold, As 't Were, The Mirror Up To Nature.

Love, Which Teacheth Me That Thou And I Am One

What Many Men Desire--that 'many' May Be Meant By The Fool Multitude That Choose By Show, Not Learning More Than The Fond Eye Doth Teach, Which Pries Not To Th' Interior, But Like The Martlet Builds In The Weather On The Outward Wall, Even In The Force And Road Of Casualty.

The Weary Sun Hath Made A Golden Set And By The Bright Tract Of His Fiery Car Gives Token Of A Goodly Day To-morrow.

What Time Hath Scanted Men In Hair, He Hath Given Them In Wit.