How Many A Holy And Obsequious Tear

Faults That Are Rich Are Fair.

Seems," Madam? Nay, It Is; I Know Not "seems." 'tis Not Alone My Inky Cloak, Good Mother, Nor Customary Suits Of Solemn Black, Nor Windy Suspiration Of Forced Breath, No, Nor The Fruitful River In The Eye, Nor The Dejected 'havior Of The Visage, Together With All Forms, Moods, Shapes Of Grief, That Can Denote Me Truly: These Indeed Seem, For They Are Actions That A Man Might Play: But I Have That Within Which Passeth Show; These But The Trappings And The Suits Of Woe.

Of All The Flowers, Me Thinks A Rose Is Best.

My Love Is As A Fever, Longing Still.

Come, And Take Choice Of All My Library, And So Beguile Thy Sorrow.