All That Glisters Is Not Gold; Often

The Summer's Flower Is To The Summer Sweet Though To Itself It Only Live And Die

Some Falls The Means Are Happier To Rise.

Ere I Could Make Thee Open Thy White Hand, And Clap Thyself My Love; Then Didst Thou Utter, I Am Your's For Ever!

Is There No Pity Sitting In The Clouds That Sees Into The Bottom Of My Grief? O Sweet My Mother, Cast Me Not Away! Delay This Marriage For A Month, A Week, Or If You Do Not, Make The Bridal Bed In That Dim Monument Where Tybalt Lies.

Virtue Preserv'd From Fell Destruction's Blast, Led On By Heaven, And Crown'd With Joy At Last.