Every Why Hath A Wherefore.

Now Is The Winter Of Our Discontent Made Glorious Summer By This Sun Of York; And All The Clouds That Lour'd Upon Our House In The Deep Bosom Of The Ocean Buried.

Full Many A Lady I Have Eyed With Best Regard, And Many A Time Th' Harmony Of Their Tongues Hath Into Bondage Brought My Too Diligent Ear; For Several Virtues Have I Liked Several Women; Never Any With So Full Soul But Some Defect In Her Did Quarrel With The Noblest Grace She Owed, And Put It To The Foil.

Pleasure And Action Make The Hours Seem Short.

Eternity Was In Our Lips And Eyes.

Age Cannot Wither Her, Nor Custom Stale Her Infinite Variety.