For Love, Thou Know'st, Is Full Of

What Is Done Cannot Be Now Amended.

All The Contagion Of The South Light On You, You Shames Of Rome! You Herd Of--boils And Plagues Plaster You O'er; That You May Be Abhorr'd Further Than Seen, And One Infect Another Against The Wind A Mile!

With Mirth And Laughter Let Old Wrinkles Come.

Not Proud You Have, But Thankful That You Have. Proud Can I Never Be Of What I Hate, But Thankful Even For Hate That Is Meant Love.

Let Still Woman Take An Elder Than Herself: So Wears She To Him, So Sways She Level In Her Husband's Heart, For, Boy, However We Do Praise Ourselves, Our Fancies Are More Giddy And Unfirm, More Longing, Wavering, Sooner To Be Lost And Warn, Than Women's Are.