Thanks To Men Of Noble Minds, Is

Come What Sorrow Can, It Cannot Countervail The Exchange Of Joy, That One Short Minute Gives Me In Her Sight

A Devil, A Born Devil On Whose Nature, Nurture Can Never Stick, On Whom My Pain, Humanly Taken, All Lost, Quite Lost.

The Apparel Oft Proclaims The Man.

The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose.

If Thou Wilt Lend This Money, Lend It Not As To Thy Friends; For When Did Friendship Take A Breed For Barren Metal Of His Friend?