I Do Love Nothing In

Thrift, Thrift, Horatio! The Funeral Bak'd Meats Did Coldly Furnish Forth The Marriage Tables.

But I, That Am Not Shaped For Sportive Tricks, Nor Made To Court An Amorous Looking-glass; I, That Am Rudely Stamped, And Want Love's Majesty To Strut Before A Wanton Ambling Nymph; I, That Am Curtailed Of This Fair Proportion, Cheated Of Feature By Dissembling Nature, Deformed, Unfinished, Sent Before My Time Into This Breathing World, Scarce Half Made Up, And That So Lamely And Unfashionable That Dogs Bark At Me As I Halt By Them,-- Why, I, In This Weak Piping Time Of Peace, Have No Delight To Pass Away The Time, Unless To Spy My Shadow In The Sun.

We Will All Laugh At Gilded Butterflies.

I Can Hardly Forbear Hurling Things At Him.

Love's Mind Of Judgment Rarely Hath A Taste: Wings And No Eyes Figure Unheedy Haste.