What Is More Miserable Than Discontent?

This Blessèd Plot, This Earth, This Realm, This England This Nurse, This Teeming Womb Of Royal Kings, . . . This Land Of Such Dear Souls, This Dear Dear Land.

But Indeed An Old Religious Uncle Of Mine Taught Me To Speak, Who Was In His Youth An Inland Man; One That Knew Courtship Too Well, For There He Fell In Love. I Have Heard Him Read Many Lectures Against It; And I Thank God I Am Not A Woman, To Be Touched With So Many Giddy Offenses As He Hath Generally Taxed Their Whole Sex Withal.

He Hath Not Eat Paper, As It Were; He Hath Not Drunk Ink; His Intellect Is Not Replenished; He Is Only An Animal, Only Sensible In The Duller Parts. (shakespeare, Love's Labor's Lost, Iv)

Come Away, Come Away, Death, And In Sad Cypress Let Me Be Laid; Fly Away, Fly Away, Breath, I Am Slain By A Fair Cruel Maid. My Shroud Of White Stuck All With Yew, O Prepare It! My Part Of Death No One So True Did Share It. Not A Flower, Not A Flower Sweet, On My Black Coffin Let There Be Strewn: Not A Friend, Not A Friend Greet My Poor Corpse, Where My Bones Shall Be Thrown. A Thousand Thousand Sighs To Save, Lay Me O Where Sad True Lover Never Find My Grave, To Weep There!

One Half Of Me Is Yours, The Other Half Is Yours, Mine Own, I Would Say; But If Mine, Then Yours, And So All Yours.